The ice become slush
thus the opening gambit
of another year
a moodiness offset by
some sun, the first aconite.
Moss is luminous
in this wet and winter wood
wherever dark is
green is, hard at work for us
for those that may look and see.
Instead of the spring
here is another winter
and another, walls
of snow that build as a brief
reminder of age and graves.
The seasonal bugs
are abroad, cutting our throats
we splutter and hack
behind curtains as the rain
falls across empty pavements.
Now, with sudden warmth
and quick as a granted wish
all is white again
hedgerows laden and vivid
with blankets of sloe blossom.
The bedsheets are damp
with sweat and with our concern
the tumour is out
and we are waiting for news
a reprieve, as the grass dies.
Heat is upon us
and without the wash of rain
gardens now retreat
into themselves, to a green
memory of death outgrown.
But not yet outrun
as the fires of our making
enfold us, our flood
of ruin sweeping through woods
to a black and burning sea.
Islands on the edge
of the world, still blown and scoured
by oceanic wind
seaweeds and blots of sphagnum
clinging to their weary rock.
So far, so gorgeous
as the opening stanzas
of our fall proclaim
perfection of the gages
ripe and rotting in our hands.
Insinuation
of the light into landscape
lower and older
now as the bushes declare
their glittering, bletted haws.
Lie down and look up
through the rose and ochre leaves
to the flawless blue
of this moment, a last glow
before the day’s withering.
The twigs at twilight
clattering on the windows
remind us, remain
as a dark and slender thought
to see us over the ice.
Second Nature: James Lindesay’s Poetry 