Posted in Death

South Equinox

Summer pours thinly into autumn
the last wine dribbling from a bottle
daylight and temperature are less generous.
Winter rehearses. Melancholy descends.

Lonely Islands
unwanted offspring of the runaway continent
abandoned to empty latitudes
rescued by trigonometry and ancient navigators
subtending midday sun to liquid horizon.

Water and sun
combine to form
most favoured season
the season of youth, default or reclaimed
of bare legs
of tanned arms
of bold mid riffs
of poised hope.

Scenes of the heart backdropped by summer – always
blue and warm. Forever.
If only.
The planet pays no mind
orbiting into chill
into dark
into loss.

For the back story click Backstage
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Most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attenuation. Waiting has turned a loner into a recorder - nondescript and inconsequential, more not noticed than overlooked - the non-vantage point of children not yet considered old enough to understand. Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry is a lifetime of picking anecdotes up and not throwing them away. Stories collected like odds and ends placed in a box in the basement, the garage, the garden shed - uncertain as to what their use might be but knowing that one day there might be one.