XII-XV

In the quiet of the still night
the windswept barrens lie dormant
beneath the ebony mantle
of the serene ochre empress.

Her glistening teardrops
adorn her sombre attire,
embellishing her infinite sorrow.
Her tears shall ne'er be dried,
yet their eternal source stagnated long ago.

Her sightless eyes perceive only blackness.
Ignorant of her own radiance,
she only remembers sentiment:
memories now dearer than her lost sight.







She glides silently over
the tranquil grey waters,
beneath an angry and sullen sky.

There is no sun to glow on
her pure, crystalline plumage:
only her natural radiance
evokes a warm lantern-light
to guide her through the
thick closeness of the mist.

Her tranquil wake gently
trails out behind her;
she hardly makes an impression
on the still waters as she
moves wrathlike towards the
distant shore of the lake.





Seeing the faded victorian
bricks and dusty high rises
fade into a blur of green
is now a novelty.

The textured verdant mass soon
retreats back, yielding to the
monotone grey of humanity;
even the neat rows of
silver birch cannot mask the great
scar where their brothers used to stand.

The dull glow of existence
never fades for even the sky is
still an unforgiving dark grey:

It's still just the same;
the rain and gloom follow you
wherever you go.

A dull reminder of an extravagant past.





Reliving is always far harder
than leaving.
On leaving the shackles are
shattered forever yet the scars
they leave will never fade.

Those sentiments of leaving
and the action of returning are
the same if not identical;
the fresh wounds having been
closed are willingly rent open
again: it is our own
choice this time, such is the
hilarity of our double standards.