It is cold out here in the April night…

for the Spring brings round

once again the thoughts

of bitter, distant feeling

and the detachment

from those I once held so dear.

 

In winter I can hold off the tales

of chilly formality by stoking

the fires of resentment,

my own poke in the gas filled grate

of which I would never

speak out loud.

 

In summer, the lazy days

in which the sun burns

down and turns the river bed

dry and aloof with feeling,

I can sit beside the moaning grass,

whispering indifference

about the days in which you let me drown

by not listening

to the whole story,

or was that your plan all along

to put me out to sea

and throw sharp rocks

at the inflatable blue dingy

with relish and glee

tightly wrapped

upon your stone driven face

and merciless heart.

 

In autumn I have a death upon my hands

that I could not save, that takes

up my time in thought

and frozen memory, of a life

that would now be loved,

I hope,

by those around him,

 

can you hear them sing his praises,

 

autumn is fair and the leaves die

in time with you.

 

It is in spring,

can you feel how cold it is

now as I remember you.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016