Sic Transeunt Tempora Poem by Brian Taylor

Pushing up,
amongst rust-brown
and green furze,
glowing blue from within,
Michaelmas daisies
(who know nothing of Michael – nor his mass) .

But now, as the earth spins
in a darker, colder, windier orbit,
their leaves are brittle-green,
or hang like red spears
waiting to fall
and take their place
in next year’s compost.

Dry flower-heads
shrink in on themselves.
Like old men,
in extra large overcoats
tensing into scarves
and turned up collars,
to keep in their little warmth.
These too wait to take their place
in next year’s bonfire.

I remember
the closing sequences
of the Seventh Seal:
men and women, caught
in a maze of interdependence,
led away in a disjointed dance by Death.

Only two escaped:
one, a visionary
of little sense;
the other a woman of sense
but little vision.