Dead leaves drowning
Leaping like Lemmings
From Tree to Sea
Skeletal arms, leafless
Surrendered to the season
Patient is the life of a tree
Tolerant of unceasing change
You wanted to spare the blushes of the little boy
Who had ordered the book with the explicit cover
So you called him into the privacy of the corridor:
"Dyra fo yn dy ***"* you suggested gently
Handing over a book warm to the touch,
Wrapped in sellophane (as if to try to contain its power).
I've never forgotten that one-act play, nor its elements:
The subject compressed within its covers,
Your understanding and thoughtfulness,
The bewilderment of my ten year old self,
The discernment of Sbondonics**
But mostly the Hellfire unleashed by Little Boy fifty years prior.
*Put it in your bag
**A Welsh literary children's magazine
What wonders have my wasteful eyes overlooked
Over thirty years of fleeting footfall
A hungry desire for fitness and weightloss
Now yields to age and acceptance.
This blue dot, home to **** Contrarius
Custodians and abusers of Earth
Who named everything seven thousand times
And created seven thousand differing deaths.
As the Sun abandons the living
Dusk drowns the entombed dead
Inviting the night to resurrect.
Reality rushes to a single point
A concentrated truth ovewhelms
Am I free or imprisoned in the now?
Options become the stars and clouds
But vanish in a flash of lucid thought.