Andrew David Dalby
This season is full of secret hints: of mustard spiced tints,
Which wrestle between the steps of rusted slow-dancing.
It is a secret, sacred space, where the night fingers of crows,
Stretch out in slowly expanding, ever circling swirling curls;
-Their murderous chatter, so lively and so violently explodes-
Upon this: the finite and ever dwindling fingers of the dusk.
Here, I'm tripping, while blood is slowly dripping, from heavily
Veined trees, whose pulsing green, of a laced summer scene,
Is now near almost lost to a fragile -near forgotten- dream…
So, I'm given to an earth that's rich, moist and very welcoming;
While the wailing cast's violent shudders against a steel grey rain,
That mocks… in blistering cuts, and chisels against the grain.
It's from these tossed -near green- tormented bitter scenes,
That so savagely builds a heavy salted stain upon the whipped air;
I almost hear screamed out from a cavernous mouth: - beware…
To note, that despite numb hands, tightly shut from each other,
How a single rose…slight… fleshy, pink and brightly new born;
Simply shines, in crystal clarity…forever against the storm.
Life is special.
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