Autumn.

Life is useless under a stone name.
A banner of deceased futures
All gathered in overgrown thickets
Yellow leaves try to brighten it.

It's a condensing of stories in one place
All here to observe under the calling
Of despondent crows rattling on a
Rusted Fence.

It would break at once, these lines
But the earth would hold under a
Stubborn soft frost, over a faded
Mum on grandpa's grave.

Winter.

The nursing home leans on the grave's yard.
it's the open door, waiting room,
Bus station for this tawny place
On the eve of forever.

There are enough tears when the buss
Arrives and door creaks open over the
Shiny, waxed linoleum floors
Oh but the smell is always there.

Naked before them, no shame now
Just a waiting, growing and shuffle-
No one checks their watches - it will come.

Spring.

To begin again,
Isn't that what she said?
One is left the bus
Into the earth's belly.

One has left to start
With eyes that first look at the sky
First sniff of air
Maybe in the same place.

Not knowing what to do or go
Like prisoners following the chain ahead
Shift, rattle, shift, stumble
Invisible map, fear of losing.

Summer.

But tomorrow's a word in the Winter's smile
blowing on those same tree's
Ruffling those same crows
Shaking that old fence.

Shadowed eyes face the heat
Face the wind,
Face the earth's motion
And your call.

Could he be a man of rancor
Making a last bad play?
An old score for his hands
An odd sound of wings.

Fall Again.

For he doesn't lock the shutters of learning
But stares into dusk
Like a stone in his palm
Remembers the taste of the night air.

~Dave~
12 Feb 05
 

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