A good death.

The landscape
of this man is dark
but not dour
or solemn,

a December wood
glistening with frost
under ice blue

Icicles laced like pearls
drip from the arms
of chivalrous chestnut
and beseeching birch

He is aged now,
this reaper of seasons
who wears winter in
his hair and beard

But he is
summer still
in pale skin
and blushing cheeks.

A sack of memories
holding seeds
and leaves,
rings on rings of growing,

flood and drought,
and drought again,
so rain is welcome
on his northern slopes

shattered shoulder and spine.
and stealing sweat
from a fevered brow.

The walk is into
not the darkness of
long anticipation

The glow and shine
of celebration,
greet him on the edge
of verdant green.

The wood
as days rotate
and replay in loops

death comes
to the lion
as a feathered friend
at Michaelmas end.

-Dave Kavanagh

One thought on “A good death.

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