Colours of Never

Like a one-night-stand, it will come
and go.
It will toss
leaves upon tarmac and walk away.
Flowers will grow
wrinkles
like old laugh lines.
Heads will hang and we
will call them
wilted.
They will remind me
of people I have seen.
Silent funerals will ensue.
Fathers will cremate them
near garden gates.
Their smoke will curl;
smell of toast.
Some stems will sleep
long, eat little.
Some will turn
brittle, splinter like sun dried
cigarettes.
Grass
will apologise for their loss.
It will feel responsible.
People will want to cross
legs and fill emptiness
with nothings.
I will speak
of the season's frailty-
its leaves of flame, its colours
of blood.


Colours of Never first appeared in Get Underground in 2003