The Magnolia’s Shadow

The shadow of the Japanese magnolia

is thinning now that its royal-blue

buds have fallen. At the top a lone cicada

chirrs off and on. The time of voices joined

in unison, Clizia, of the boundless power

devouring and replenishing his faithful,

is over. Spending oneself was easier,

dying at the first rush of wings, the first

encounter with the enemy, was a game.

Now the harder way begins: but not you

consumed by the sun and rooted,

yet gentle fieldfare soaring high above

the cold banks of your river – not you does

the shuddering cold bow low,

fragile fugitive for whom

zenith nadir Cancer Capricorn

stayed indistinct so that the war

might be in you and in him who loves

the Stigma of your Spouse upon you…

The rest fall back and fold. The file

that etches finely will be still,

the empty husk of him who sang will soon

be powdered glass underfoot, the shadow’s pale –

it’s fall, it’s winter, it’s the great beyond

that draws you and I hurl myself in it,

mullet beached under the new moon.

                                Farewell.