Seasons Die and Seasons Change

January 2, 2018


Lilac flowers bloom
in Spring a chorus of
bouquets that turn into
a vulgar show of vanity
pulling vomit from my stomach
Winter trees that once seemed quaint
remembering Paris streets
where my feet have never stepped
now stark naked to the eye
drawing sympathy from having
lost its leaves
The Summer waves of Cottesloe
trudge forwards and back,
thrust into soft sand
eroding eroding eroding
sand dragged into the depths
of the sea’s tentacled babies
ink rises and all is black
drowning drowning drowning
not by water but by squid ink
beneath still waters
like soft silk, blue beneath
clear skies and fluffy clouds
Autumn’s blood red leaves
scream for attention but
I feel nothing,
a cave echo in the silent
crevices of my chest
The Winter chill cuts
my bones and I wonder,
where are all the lamplights?
Roads darken into
inked nights moving forwards
never back
has gone ahead without me.

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We acknowledge the past, present and emerging traditional owners of the land on which we live and work, the Wadjuk people of the Noongar nation and acknowledge that sovereignty was never ceded.

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