Once …

Long drone; persistent, low

Reminds me that

Summer is heading south …

But the familiar beat

Runs on, insistent;

Little lady mysteries

Scattered like crow-charms

On new-broke ground.

We were once angels of the

Darkest, happiest thunders,

Now we stare through

Barley-glass panes at

November’s secret lights.

We have to learn to

Make fires of bones.

 

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Before the Rain …

This is the rain

That isn’t really rain –

That comes before the rain

That will be –

But why the fuss?

Didn’t we always know the

Summer wouldn’t last forever?

If it wasn’t what you wanted

Surely there’s only your self

To blame for that?

December’s insanities,

Brewing in the still room

Begin to giggle, little

Secret red bubbles;

The dark that isn’t real darkness,

That comes before

The dark that is:

What’s next?

 Really?

You have to ask?

Surely that’s the question

Best left to answer itself?