The Starving Edge
The Starving Edge
You ask me to write of new beginnings
when from
un-leaving trees
autumn blood flows,
when the talk is all of cuts carving
the trunk of consented life.
Such wanton speeches made sly solemnly
by those
sitting smug in
the safest seats,
feed the juggernaut of greed, taxing
fierce sacrifices from the frail.
Can vulnerable buds be induced at
this blood
wounded juncture?
As heedless boots
cause a crunching carpet’s golden leaves
to break down to crumbling brown.
The bleeding of trees and the grieving of
clouds names
November’s rise,
month of recalled
souls, as a gusted gull croaks above
the nets my words are casting.
Time to grieve the wounds that fester unsung,
to find
the silent rooms,
the dormant tombs
that long lain unused could prove wombs to
the remaking we ache for.
The true new beginning is to live stripped,
willing
and wilful at
the starving edge
of brightening days, where solstice endured
yields to winter birthing spring.
From Arriving in Magic – Copyright Adrian G R Scott