(A homage to seasonal affective disorder)
Darker grow the dusks of late.
The knarled tide of winter’s flow,
As rise the dying sentiments
From graves we dug so so long ago.
We watch them toy among the waste
Shed tears without reason,
And dance our wistful par de deux
Beneath the trees of crippled season.
And together in retrospect we cavort with ills
And dine upon their wakeful feast
And wait, and watch through lilies white
For the hope of new light in the east.
But it comes not,
Not yet at least
As deeper darkness then prevails
The icy winds of memories tales
Propel our self indulgent sails
Until, on melancholic shores
We dig and bury
Befores that haunt,
Befores that twist,
Befores that came about before the mist decided to descend
And ash to ash
Dust to dust,
We bring our durgeful passing…
To its end.
For the wheel turns
And new life ‘will’ grow,
From beneath the fallen leaves and snow,
The thorns of winter blunted so
By optimistic valour.
And eulogies of blossomed bows
Are given as before and nows
Hand in hand,
As the seasons move
And ever shape our land.