Long conversations are in order now,
This unrelenting season of decline,
Spent rearranging petals on the bough,
As pound for pound you always held your wine.
So come again and sit outside with me,
Beside the fire or under falling leaves.
I've never stopped imagining us free
To well regard the spider as she weaves,
Or god theirself though seldom ever pleased
By sacrificial gestures brought halfway,
Sick flowers you might save from their disease.
Eventually of course we've hell to pay.
So never mind the words I fail to say.
We'll find some comely mortal way to pray.