What becomes of love when roses fade and birds migrate
beyond the realm of meaning,
subverted, staid and losing faith in the pleasure
of abandoning reason?
And what reason,
whereby all sober thought discarded in lust's flame
to serve beside raw passion
beats now within?
That order was swept away along with all censure
of rash and ill judged action
in hot days of flush youth when belief had words to say
the day is of small matter.
And what matter,
creating still days when time is abundant unable
to cease or stray from our life
traps now within?
The initial register of their quivering timbre
became a significant hush
as each immeasurable moment sequentially
stole forward all dawn through to dusk.
And the dusk,
like a rainbow ring arching into a cloud
startles colour to the eye,
does dance my
imagination chaotic, by upending sound
reason and trying
with constant attempt to straddle some powerful force
all shades of passion embrace.
And this embrace,
like youth’s fading light draws softly in darkness
quenching ardour by decay,
is nature's force.
The Heraclitan stream upon whose surface all thought
fixes logic and symbol
our world of flux creates, and which we seek to harness
events of this temporal
manifestation of unknowable order to,
as though it were dolmen stone.
But this stone,
riven deep into a wet rich clay of live cold earth
impervious to us all
holds no thought,
only the imprint all sequential moments that drew
each to the next have made known
before passing to fade like the rose and migratory bird.