Our hills are burnt.
Florid fronds of ferns rusted to rouge-
the tipping point, you could say,
before a healthy glow shatters into snow.
Akin to spring, tumbling down, down, down-
as spring climbs up, up, into boundless life.
petals of propulsion, shoots rocket rising,
epitomising the parabolic curve of the year.
Symmetrical shame, then, that their white light life,
is met so readily on the other side,
by a torrential dowpour of dull husks.
The hourglass was given to us full
Yet its contents, in brisk sweeps, did fall,
Even the shine had been buffed
until buffing became obselete-
And we were left, resigned,
with a shell of concrete.
Where has our time all gone? Alas,
we keep calm, and carry on, on, down
As our world bleeds green into brown.
Malodorous indeed, don't you think?
That we took what belonged to nobody,
yet not
ours,
our dreams, our trees-
as summer yet unflowers.
And our summer too, like wine in air, sours,
Into a future we knew we could prevent
Yet blithe and brazen, we burn-
burrow deep into our skin; build towers
Extract our blood,
feed it to the skies,
So naïve, to unknow,
that in blood, soul resides.
Breathless from summer, sun goes down, down, down,
Spring reigned green, for the burning beltaine-
Autumn at its advent, such symmetrical shame.
