Broken fire-red fingers

claw to a distantly fading morning –

the desperate scramble

to escape a crumbling ruin:

Night.

A vacuous event horizon,

exponential in pointing to collapse –

that critical moment

of an in-folding probability:

Black.

Hawks propose plausible flights of fancy

until their negation by uproarious hunter shouts –

their lofty tangents

crashing under gravity’s wrath:

Dead.

Earthbound on a spiral string

the final turbulent moments expand into chaos –

remembering the future

in a blood red singularity:

Nothing.

Out of place sun shines over a picket post cemetery
leaning against green hills.

Neatly tended lawns lay carpets of soft
and respectfully uniform sorrow

while watch tower trees are manned by keen observing birds
singing to pass the time.

Visitors are frequent, coming to browse the many headstones
sighing in sympathy with the loss of so many;

respectfully negotiating the tragic minefield
set by the outline of their coffins.

The barely audible crunch of hearses arriving in sorrow
over dutiful gravel whispers in mourners ears

to tell of new residents, each one a mother’s son,
many a woman’s husband.

But I cannot shed a single tear for them; merely names to me.
I didn’t know them like this man.

A friend, a mentor, a gentleman and a brother;
and here he will finally rest easy,

undisturbed by his troublesome ways.
Here he will rest in the hard to reach sunshine,

leaning against the green hills of home
in a picket post cemetery.

The fevered dance of common garden fly
busies about the creaking laburnum;
a mating rite, a dispute over territory.

Taking curious precedence over the crowded daisies
this ritual plays out to an old piano’s opus.

Envious magpies sweep by lacquered ivy;
green and swaying in a summer evenings breeze
the leaves are laminated in a soft, warming light

as playfully they jump to the delicately flecked horizon;
stretching to touch upon the lazy evening cloud.

As the shadows stretch to the hanging pot
and loose brick walls settle for the night
the pale rose trellis lets go its quiet petal,

lingering in an updraft before slipping through the sunset
this morbid waltz is set to the oceans steady rhythm.

Distant, yet strong in its cadence,
this final arpeggio ushers in a funeral bell
that rises up through uninterrupted dusk.

With effort spent this orchestra draws to its end,
the applause has faded and the opera house is closed.

All that remains are the roses offered in adoration,
wilting now and strewn about an empty stage.

Through delicately latticed branches the morning sun is rising,
gently lifting the nights residue fog.
The harbour where peeling boats used to lean
is filled full with a sparkling blue.
A portrait uninterrupted, a fresco renewed with fresh breeze.

Through easy skies a playful bird dances a rhythm all to himself;
such a care-free fellow, no need for human quarrels.
On the pier an old bench, boastful to no man, smiles
and declares to the world that it is still standing!
Patiently it waits for accepting occupant.

Quietly acknowledging anyone that will sit to keep company or pass time,
the old bench watches the waves, so full of life, so adventurous.
Longing to bathe in the shimmering surf but forced into voyeuristic jealousy,
the manifesting clouds of violent hurricanes appear on the horizon.
A reverenced silence sweeps into the harbour, a moment of calm.

Water once silent erupt toward scornful skies,
lost from their innocence to dark figures, flashing smiles of false pretense.
Through the maelstrom, with purpose lost and a growing insignificance,
weary woods discover a fresh sense of revitalization.
‘Harness the wrath of Neptune; offer it in triumph to Apollo. ‘

Shards of frigid waters spew forth, drawing from every form
to pool a complex reservoir, deep and expansive.
They stalk such moments wherein slanted light can evaporate
true meanings and hold them as a cloud; grey and troublesome.
And as the bashful sun shines its brightest,

metaphors pour heavy before the masses.

Through wintered forest I come upon deep pools,
each one a beautiful darkness, each one deep in their wonderment.

I could lose myself so happily in these waters and succumb to the blissful purity
of the unknown, but the forest holds my attention.

Lazily I drift along dirt tracks worn and traveled by poetic musings;
there is no signpost, no goal, only the simple experience of nature’s creation.

Bare hands run heavy upon snowy branches,
each cold protrusion an inspiration, a chance to begin anew.

Every branch is a line to be written, a verse to be recited.
Unique to their finder, yet well known to us all.

The snow begins to fall again, rejuvenating the branches
unburdened by my touch.

While in awe of this spectacle I come upon imprinted footstep,
newly formed in betrayal of individual sanctum.

Ahead of me an old lady shuffles along this freshly laid carpet,
veiled in the reflection of her time.

I pause to take a moment of my own.
Lost in my thoughts and with no course of action,

the old lady drifts from my vision
as the snows collect on my shoulders.