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Guy

 


October sun.
Flowers still flame the shrubbery
leaves dance in shivering breeze.
You chose summer’s heat,
an old garden shed,
tar smell, cut grass,
spiders and dust
webbing and sprinkling sun shafts.

Subtly the leaves are changing,
not yet to autumn’s cream and brown
but paler greens and reds,
winter’s frost has not yet
dusted the morning grass.

At summer’s height
the ice was in your failing heart
and after the operation
colours leeched from you mind,
strange thoughts
with the chaos of leaves
blown in unsettling randomness
you could not gather or hold.

You who had organised your life
with such enthusiasm, now
scribbling frantically in the margins
of books and newspapers,
spiralling beyond sanity
foresaw the end
and raised the gun to your throat.

Red leaves flow down silent lanes,
pool in the shade,
congeal.

 

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