The Scorching Days

I have known the scorching days
with a blazing sun, the wide-blown blue
the puffed clouds like sails slowing
across the sky, the back beaten red by heat
the wine golden in the cup the
crisp salad under the parasol.

I have known the grip of winter
the midnight blue shadows, the ice
grinding the loch and the snow a perfect
surface to the hills, the trees as
ghosts glittering, blanched with frost.

And now my feet are cinder paths
and my hands ashes, the grit
bitter on the tongue.   My day
in the sun gone, and winter's
grip receding to a taste of white
and shadow in the mouth.

The eyes are dimmed by sorrow
and the heart beats slow.

My paths are ill before me -
there is nowhere left to go.
The Golden Fish
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