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old king’s almost done, now grinding round t he cold white-gold hinge of t he year

no longer spring-supple, st rong and bursting wit h juice leaping, laughing roaring, stag-headed into t he t hroat of dusk, sof t as velvet gorged wit h promises

old king’s almost done now falling t hrough black-branch net bent under t he weight of pallid rose-edged skies

no longer dancing round t he hallow of t he f ull-bellied moon lips bruised lust-red t hroat slick wit h honey-summer

old king’s almost done now dreaming in t he f lames as old fears crowd t he edges of ancient night

no longer biting crisp, first apple f lesh teet h stained berr y-blood dark

hands overf lowing, cramming life to mout h running gentle t hrough aut umn’s tangled smoke-sweet mane

old king’s allmost done, now

deep beneat h t he crust of t he world blindly f used potent about to become egg and seed lie waiting


Allan Davies

year turning layup  
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