Shadow Rung Out Of Bloom Poem by Mark Heathcote

Oh, how I wish Death weren't prolonged.
Where are you going to my heart of wonder?
Chasing gentian folk lightning-tongued
Now that the rising pain starts to thunder

So still the pause in the flicker of death's eyes.
So quick-fan-flamed, the fire kilns bake up our skies.
Youth in her wax burns out at both ends of (life) .
'That these daughters of mischance give up being, wivie'.

Beauty was her enigma, once cherished to the last
How she's ageing older, now haunts a bitter flask!
How cold this elongated suns-eclipse by the moon.
Love - isn't death just a shadow, wrung out of bloom.