Late August With Hints Of Gold Poem by Mark Heathcote

Late August and the yellow hints of autumn are arriving
Just as the rose, begins to fade. Just as the cherry stones-
Have all turned black. Just as the Lunaria annua, wild honesty flower
To me and you, turns from glaucous green to jade-
Then silver, now we are already dreamily looking back.
As poets, I think we are wishfully ardent dreamers
And time travellers.
At times even a prophetic narrator of dogma a prophet and a saint.
He/she at best is an age-old commissioned jewel thief.
She/he gilds around the edges-
Brush stroking… on-off… gold leaf
No use probing with old glass cutters around those master portraits
These petal foils they're warm-bodied multi-layered icons still.
They have a full crown of hardened fast beliefs.
They're burdened with a mixture of nonconformist beliefs, all of their own.
Trying not to just follow, but form a whole new picture a whole new epicentre.
But you/I must travel blindfold:
Hold out a dismembered hand and aim to grow it back.
Press palms - less their digits downward on braille words nudging for clues
Feeling for a murder weapon the axe, befallen them, which will befall us too.
She/he is about to use, is about to be slain with by an ex-lover's hand.
He/she must tightrope wearily,
Cathartic over their own pitiful insecurity's, clinging nail and tooth,
To ledges bottomless here to delve into their darkest own depths.
And, there like a botanist, searching for orchids
Find a new nameless, unimaginable, original genus.
But too often they're discovered found year's too late near-dead dying in a ravine
Like some nameless skeletal serpent, that's remains are pieced together
From the head vertebrae, and ribs,
Like some book pressed rose with yellowing vellum sleeves
Later another August will come with hints of gold, autumn, has it arrived?
Oh, I too must be on or off the shelf.