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Rupert Waldron

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Makes growth

The flame that’s this time of day’s passing celebrates
Flung to the horizon of the impossible to reach a thought’s
Origin, deep inside itself where in conspiracy with things May
Springs, even as it withers to the roots in the fall, autumn, of day.
The stow rush that takes away what you thought most yours
So by the time you get to see how clear was the sky the shawl’s
Fallen, although what the dark mourns - the impossibility to sustain - the
                                                                                                         way
It’s always rolling out what it achieves, will anyhow still bring more.
And a cyclical whirl like that’s got something to do with how
the ache in this leg, growing with the months, in thought’s to tempt
Impossibly to overbalance itself, fall towards silence, the better to reflect
Crossing the silence, as now , you thinking. I can see the appearing new
                                                                          wrinkle, to your brow.
this breaking, where your body proves thought’s tied time, showing that
                                                                                            you know
Intimately the same decay I do, makes of its silence communication -
                                                                                    makes growth.

 

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