Poem: In The Time Of The Dying
May 22, 2023
In the time of the dying of the leaves,
when summer’s solace is a memory passed,
and deepening shadows of evening cast
their pall ‘cross rich man’s roof and beggar’s eaves,
colours primary, raw, blast out a last
spectacular fanfare: embroidered sleeves
to counterpoint the widow’s darkling weeds
shows off to the night no matter how vast
eternity approaching, no matter
no one escapes the black hole’s pull of doom,
and each lifes’ cloth will be cut from the loom,
no matter this, ‘tis only now that matters;
the now that paints the tree with red and gold,
regrets nothing, wants only to stay old.
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