Wednesday, 10 October 2012

A Separation

My love, each year the marigolds decline,
Lapsing in splendour to a spent, brown show;
And winter, swilled in the mouth like mouldy wine,
Grows busy with its ice-bound status quo.

Yet heedless of the sopping, choking soil
Come Spring the heavy-shouldered seedlings stir –
Jazz up the garden like jam on the boil,
Singing in orange like a mad, punk choir.

My dear, my dear, should you go, should you go,
What will be left me but the blackbird’s scream;
The marigolds smashed down by one cruel blow,
And dusk like anarchy along the lawns
Where some chill figure wanders with a dream
In the long, lasting, wasting day and mourns?

© August 1983

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