Seasons Die and Seasons Change


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 Time, 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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© 2020 by Curtin Writers Club