The onset of winter

The sorrow of parting lies
Reflected in the pool of autumn leaves.
Nature in full retreat beneath
The sky so dark the colours run,
Like oil on water,
Dripping from Zadok’s hand,
To anoint less worthy men.
The chill wind unpicks the memories,
Blowing leaves into the gutter,
The blue-black pavement reflecting
The absence of the sun.

The absence swells to fill the space
Within a hollow sound, squeezed
Out and stretched, till meaning
Is wiped away and the tastes
And smells of shared meals hang,
Behind unfocussed thoughts.
Memories of lost connections,
Stripped of meaning, now eternity
Is shredded, on the wind.
An immortality, once so nearly touched,
Cannot be denied by the Angel at the Gate.

Yet denial of the truth
Betrays unconscious thought,
Dying on deserted lips,
Traitors uttering blasphemies,
That shatter on the ground.
Like hailstones hammering
The surface, tempering
The skin, into a leathery hide,
To protect the emptiness within.
The hollow vessel, out of which,
Flows all the sorrows of separation.

Acceptance comes with the first frost,
Stealing through the long night,
To cover the fallen leaves
And wrap the world in its numbing cloak.
The sterile whiteness of a surgeon’s gown
And the anticipation of the first cut,
Yet this is not excision. There is no cure.
The branches are bare, the pavement
Swept and washed with rain.
And now a wise child will be born again,
To bring meaning to the world.