Friday, 9 September 2011

'Alchemy of autumn.'

Finally written a new poem... I've had writer's block over the best part of the summer, I haven't been too inspired by working 25 hour weeks at Topshop. It chisels away at the soul.


The leaves are still under the illusion
That it is not September. They undulate

The sky has understood, as it always does.
It is not the fool that the foliage is;

It breeds the cirrocumulus and the stratus; children of the trophosphere.
They tinge the reluctant into equinox, like tea into water, and gaze at this juncture,
Between summer and winter; a burnished purgatory.

But this natural limbo is not simple.
There is something else in the alchemy of autumn that hatches the ghosts from their husks, and gives them permission
To haunt.
It is grief and it is carnal anticipation, it is adrenalin in a silken, prickled carapace.
It is life and the temptation of death, and it makes you run through that mixture
of wind and dappled sunlight, that concoction that only comes with the alchemy of autumn, screaming and crying, but laughing and sparkling. Like an early firework.

This gorgeous madness.
It will die with the first snow,
It will die to be succeeded by the pall that is January;
Fear and dysphoria.

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