They say that the year turns -
but in what direction?
I should say colour mostly :
green into browns and yellows -
the occasional reds.
It’s turning away from the sun
as you and I once turned
from our former brightness
into a darkening autumn.
Plum and sloe and damson :
the purples of mourning
hung amongst the hips ;
the haws, the bloodlust
of the year’s fecundity.
Love dies but the seed continues -
but in what direction ?
I see the veins in the leaves
and the veins in our hands -
simile, metaphor,
what is there to know -
to understand as the butterfly
sips at windfalls
and another leaf thins
to a frail detritus ?
My love for you grows stronger:
even in winter stasis
is not possible — the crocus
and the coldness counteract.
