Here at the downward spiral of the year,
Where the bright golden light deceives my heart,
I rest upon the certainty of change --
Death shall not stay despite his guileful art.
Here, in the shadows, toadstools rise and fall
In one day’s space. Life turns, and turns away,
Dancing its seasons on this spinning orb
Whilst we await a brighter, better day.
Flesh calls to flesh, but skies so sudden sharp
Pierce my defences to the naked soul;
And I must fall, as these bright leaves must fall,
Yielding my goldenness as rightful toll.
Here, even now, the winter gathers in
For its assault, its bending down to dark.
And I must go where every creature goes,
Down into night, where hope is a bare spark.
Yet in this quelling ebb-tide of the sun
I shall not dread the fears that gather close
That haunting terror I have met before,
Dressed as imagination can impose.
This too shall pass, as every season spins
To time’s finality and earth’s last breath
Blossoming to that Spring that cannot fadeWhere we find rest upon the Death of Death.