May Song

for Marina Bonomi

This time of year, when the moon is a smudge in the sky above bare trees, as though it were an afterthought, a mark left on the blue from something that isn’t there anymore. May’s jewellery is gold and ruby, platinum and diamond. Frost curling the edge of the air. The rolling crunch of acorns underfoot. The gutters and footpaths heaped with the season’s discarded wrappers, their colours stolen from the sunset. Blackbirds singing praise from every chimney-pot. As though we were blind, as though we hadn’t noticed.

autumn gust –
a swirl of leaves stopped
by the traffic lights
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