Death will not come tonight

There is a stark allure
to the cicatrix of sculpted death.

Music lives in spitting rain,
dripping into water butts.
And still parched ditch beds
again slowly filling.

Autumn turns verdant green
to shades, vermilion,
and dry flaking crimson.

This week I don armour,
my leather hat and gloves.
Not to handle hunting hawks,
a falconer gyring
a bloody weighted line.

But to pull out brambles,
thorns strangling wild roses.
Dig out deep rooted dock.
And fuzzy seeded ragwort
from the beds and headlands
of a delinquent garden.

The bone white bleached corpses
of last year’s dead felled birch
reflect warm lowering sun.

Twilight, memories of June.
This chapter of diamond dew
and cool misted morning,

But dusk is butter soft,
her story worth the waiting.

Selene on silver, rides
the eastern horizon.
A maiden’s lustres skin,
soft silken shoulders.

The harbingers of death,
night, and the long sleep, creeps,
infecting the deep corners
and the wooded copses
of this weeded wilderness
I try in vain to tame.

The orphan cry of snipe
dirge of days shortening.
Wildly winsome nature,
and suddenness of ending.

A vixen voices her defiance
at the waxing moon

I turn home on a tired road,
declare too my independence
of those final bindings.
Death will not come tonight
or many nights to come,
but when it does, as it will

I’ll don my vermillion
and wear the weeds of rust
without once complaining.

-Dave Kavanagh

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