The Year Turns

 

They say that the year turns -
but in what direction?

I should say colour mostly :
green into browns and yellows -
the occasional reds.

It’s turning away from the sun
as you and I once turned
from our former brightness

into a darkening autumn.
Plum and sloe and damson :
the purples of mourning

hung amongst the hips ;
the haws, the bloodlust
of the year’s fecundity.

Love dies but the seed continues -
but in what direction ?

I see the veins in the leaves
and the veins in our hands -
simile, metaphor,

what is there to know -
to understand as the butterfly
sips at windfalls

and another leaf thins
to a frail detritus ?
My love for you grows stronger:

even in winter stasis
is not possible - the crocus
and the coldness counteract.