September.
Persephone jumps pre-emptive
back to the underworld;
is buried in the fall that follows -
concrete and kerosene.
Hunched into morning,
mist rolls in; hangs
like dust down avenues.
Beneath old chestnuts, conkers -
littered as cluster bombs and aid parcels -
are collected by children.
Choice of shape is vital:
both food and death are yellow.
Night overtakes day.
In gutters, leaves swept to mush
pile up, refugees along the kerb.
Wind-whipped, their colours wear thin
and the year is brought to earth.
Eleventh hour poppies bloom in lapels,
bedeck memorials -
a harvest fit for junkies.
Held in this balance of terror
our human form divine.
xi. 2001
No comments:
Post a Comment