Chill with drizzle, a rowan tree,
Huddled like a watchman beneath its lamp
Of clustered berries, issued from the bourn
Of night. Those berries, richly red and damp,
Shone flatly as though black
Were cindered with their hot-coals glimmer;
For not dull autumn with its rust and lack
But the rowan with leaves like Charon’s oars
Lights travellers to Lake Avernus’ shores,
Its waters’ man-destroying simmer.
All
that has meaning is earmarked by death;
Distracted men ignore this tree,Its muted berry-brands aglow in dusk,
But comes a day a hand will snatch their breath,
Then dusty-mouthed like a discarded husk,
Possessions and endearments
Become like leaf-fall, friable,
Charon will ferry them stripped of cerements
Across the lake to judgement, then to wander
In asphodels or Tartarus asunder,
Discarnate and unknowable.
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© September 2013