Still Waters

The Mutability of Things.

Soft swathed silk, cut high above the knee,
illicit flashes of soft flesh tanned thigh,
trespassing desire, as thigh, calf, ankle –
a wrinkled crone – cross to the other side.
A soul body bent, withered, bewildered,
staring toothless grimaces of lost hope.
Children build castles in the virgin sand,
shards they hope, against the incoming tide,
as the weltering sun sinks low – then dies.
Lovers entwine, kissing deeply ’gainst fresh
painted walls, which fade, crack and peel.
The expensive oak flooring creaks then sags.
The new twist–knot rug is rotten with grime.
The car proudly driven from showroom floor,
sits in the breakers as a rusting pile,
with lights popped out like two sightless eyes.
The lovingly hand-tendered garden blooms
to a ghastly ruin of rank rotting weed,
carved sliced and diced by developer’s greed.
Years receding drag behind in their wake,
detritus – destruction – putrefaction.
Our desecrated bodies, faces, limbs,
show us the mutability of things.