A Flight of Seasons

Winter

Scarf

I wear it like a scarf.

That wretched constriction.

Tossed across my throat.

The fibers clung 

to each cut stump.

I remember when you left it here.

And said that I could keep it.

Even when I asked that you

return it from below my chin

you never did.

I plead that winter never comes.

I beg the seasons for some pity but

they never seem to hear my cries,

It shouldn’t come as a surprise as

I make my skin a sunless space.

I sleep alone with figures of

myself, from who I was to who 

I’ve found myself to be, a wreck

whose scarf, unravelled from my neck

leads me always—HELL—will it ever not lead me back? To you

Spring

Bluebell Wood

An envelope swaddled in unknown stamps, dates and times—

held uncertain by a hand, cautious of its movement, delicate of its design

decides it must be torn—sure, 

the paper corner down its short edge.

It pulls out a card adorned with an ambrosial wood,

trees sprouting from seas of purple petals

melting out into the path,

providing passage for those too stunned by its beauty to step.

Yet eyes make little footprints, traipsing a gaze into the gape,

Stems stood and bent and birthed through thorns as if to say,

This place is captured, not caught—ripe but never wrought,

it can be seen and never bought; it will prick your eyes with

intrusive thoughts of trying to step between the bluebells,

You cannot step between the bluebells,

Be here now by this flowered wood, 

Let purple hues flood eyes, and in good stead, they’ll remain longer than your footprint ever would.

Then place it back into its envelope, 

and swaddle it once more.

Summer

Summer’s Lease

Two loving bodies of grass,

One in the other’s arms,

O emerald blade, o happy dagger,

Neither come to harm.

The wind doth bear them both,

through a story ‘ready told,

Where destiny's domain does rule,

and all set in life’s mould.

At last we meet our enemy,

an evil, green-grass-cutter,

A plague o both your gardens,

A death that dare not utter.

Our almost grass-cut lovers

stand as the enemy approaches,

Weeds run far and wide

with beetles, bugs and roaches.

Together, the two bodies,

except one blade cut and passed,

Henceforth the lovers separate,

One living blade of grass.

Therefore this grass does lift its roots,

up and above the ground,

To end its empty life to which

alone it would be bound.

But not-cut was the other,

The blade of grass bent over,

Avoided death’s sharp grasp,

Alive, unlike her lover.

“Thy husband in thy meristem,

Thy lips are warm, lies dead,

This is my sheath and growing leaf,

Grass cutter, take my head!”

Autumn

Her Season and Mine/ An Aubade To Autumn

There’s only so long one man can run,

To avoid the sugar beets down like the sun,

And steal the grey shade of an autumn yet to come,

While he still mourns the summer he lost.

There’s only so high one man can climb,

Up a tree he’s grown by, blowing bubbles and smoke.

Its knots tie his words and branches birth birds,

Though its dead leaves suspend in old webs like tightropes.

There’s only so much one man can stand,

With his boots sinking soft on ploughed ground.

Before he takes a seat between pines of cut wheat,

And listens for the Fair Isle Wren’s sound.

There’s only so far one man can see,

When he’s blinded caught looking for blue,

So he closes his eyes and rests in the field,

Until clouds pass the seasons anew.

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This selection of poems has been plucked from my anthology, and serves to present a range of tones and styles, experimenting with punctuation, graphology and connotation. Next week's post will continue the travel blog saga with a tale entitled 'Pragues and Recreation'. It's a fun one.

Comment your thoughts down below, and let me know which season's piece you prefer.