Andrew David Dalby (17th Of March 1967 / Brighton East Sussex United kingdom)
There is Light! She shines behind these paralysed winter trees:
A mere hint of tangerine, which melts into a burnt blood orange;
That causes their almost chestnut limbs, now to stretch to black.
And she slowly mutates them. She forces them into other beings,
Whose coarse, fibrous hair, seems to bend in the near bitter wind;
That also sows his own seeds, as it stretches along her high spine.
Within his blistering bitter chill, can be heard the cold hard cracking,
Of splitting twig fingers as they extend out into the growing night;
That also has hints of an unopened sacred mystery soon revealed.
For it is here, everything is alive, caught by this so fragile hint of day,
In this place nothing is erased everything has its place: even mortality;
Changing the hard and physical into the softly hinted kiss of spiritual.
I witness this as the visual part of myself is now slowly dying by inches,
A reflective mockery of the day, that folds off into visions of soft velvet;
Where are seen fine tissues of light broken by the growing pig iron sky.
And in this growing ebb, the tree's mutter; and in their delicate kisses,
There can be clearly heard through those subtle sweet hinted at hisses;
The blending: an emulsifying of the senses where I have a taste of terror.
For as the soothing birds of evening, now sing the sun’s slow goodbye,
They then herald in the rising of the golden moon his huge orb sublime:
This is where time in its echoing eternal ascendance...suddenly stops.
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