Autumn is an apt expression
of the beauty and futility we feel;
and its overarching greys both match and allay
unending desperation of separation and loneliness.
To each tree, attribute its individual drama,
its own schedule and space within the theatre:
what's left of the chestnut leaves rust and shrivel
while rowan reddens and coppers
around her berry clusters.
From each tree take a final, shorn,
wintering minimum of bark and wire,
emerging gradually through their long fall.
Yet no Socialism is needed here:
there is plenty of autumn for everyone.
And before that purity
there is so much tearful tragedy to endure -
death so drawn-out, make-up running down the damp
face of the day at Summer's bedside -
love that ripens, sings out its berried heart
even as it withers away.
It strikes us dumb to see these painted fireworks,
save the 'ah' and 'oh' of realization;
so expected, yet always so surprising.
In shock, catch a breath,
for this is how it is and how it has to be:
the riotous shows of dissolution, the motley,
the travesties which somehow far excel their target,
satire rising to greatness,
Lear's wet head in the storm,
the beggared rags of our hearts desires,
the tinkers and botchers of a jury-rigged facade,
the scrapheap challenge of a bone-yard season...
Fall, fall, stall, stay, stubborn, slowly decay.
Sing to me; sing to me
your colours in the wind,
for I need you.
As I sit in an empty car park -
sky-torn, the tunnel of the boughs.
JE LEEST
Gifts and Shards Vol 2
PoëzieThis is the second and final volume of 'Gifts and Shards'. This takes us from the second month to now well over three years later, though there were many C poems in the collections tracking the seasons. There are no similar stories!
