Nothing disturbs me now the onus of
summer is leavened by russet and gold;
even blue skies and warm reflective evenings
become confined almost wholly to memory
as colour slips and the bleak winds blow.
But here and now I am writing more than a poem;
I am writing of frankincense in a godless age,
the soon to come sparse winter grasses,
stocks and shares, the mortality of dreams,
the rise of a new, neon lit Bethlehem.
Thus, I raise my glass to the continuation of time,
the countless suns and moons waiting in the wings,
that reflecting the mystery of eternal change,
somehow remain eternally the same.