Dried up, shrivelled, exposed, weather-beaten,
This wasting away of the body afflicts with decay
The hey-ho day of the day-to-day. Friends desert us quite,
And no quenching ever pleases.
What was is rubbed away, like stains that dry
Wither, languish, and decay. Time pines away.
In this quagmire, this swamp of guilt, regret
Spilt water, wine; I forget.
No transubstantiation this, no divine release
Into immortal bliss: yoked, ploughed,
Dragged, inchoate; the process has begun.
A work of resistance, an inception in art
Of all the heart-wrung soul that is left in me.,
A back-formation, if you like, a lamenting,
Of the passing of the light. Quite. .
Welcome now obscurity, shadow,
Winters tree stripped,
Bent in these winds of time.
A modulation of a voice, a volte-face:
A variation in rhyme. Surely, no man
Has such bad intent as to awaken from sleep
Those legions of demons that laugh at us as we weep?
Stripped down, declining back to the exoskeleton,
That shadow behind the sun,
And yet we take such passing grace in diminutives – ducklings,
Sweeties, babies – these auras, passing summer breezes,
Whisper of what we were, and could become.