Blackberries grow bitter on the branch-

chances missed- they shrivel to gall.

Rosy hips that swelled and bloomed

Wrinkle and blacken; their flash of lipstick red

an aging doxy’s deceit; rotten, obscene close to.

The season’s settling back to reassuring gloom:

the vibrant cheer of the high end of the year 

exhausts with the pressure to move forward, to do.

The heavy sky squats down again

and the never-drying puddles in the lane

are stirred to brown by the assaulting rain

which spits its contempt for the passive soil,

absorbing and absorbing 

till it can’t hold back tears, 

and trickles and floods its dejection 

into streams and drains,

bearing the broken flotsam of dying trees

and discarded trash on their final journeys.

Ash leaf and twig sigh their way to soggy decay

Borne along with a sweet paper’s once-bright promise.


2 thoughts on “Turning

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