IN THE FALL
This second blooming holes the weft
of rigid time, its viscous colours
deeper scented, if less jubilant with sap.
The friction of the years erodes
the statue, weathered David carries
bird-lime bloodless to my closing heart.
I tear under the weight,
the arrow snaps and the resultant
maelstrom defies decreasing entropy.
Now young, erect capillaries
spread vibrant as the blossom,
then stall, then furry platelets
rub along, cell memory
calling to perform again.
We carry seeds of our own death
but spraying them in verdant earth
forestalls the processes’ denial.
We prune in haste to flower higher
but with the seasons out of turn
the ages form a lurching gyre.
I don’t need second childhood, thanks
or to be ruled by Spring’s desire.
Copyright Chris Hunt 2013