By Simon Maddrell
The earth spins towards darkness, nature’s intent
for constant renewal, where a plant holds its roots,
a bulb absorbs the weeps of clouds and, in soil’s hands,
sprouts another self –– a flower, a fruit, a thistle, even
leaves that fall through its absence. But winter does
not end, nor the spring lighten, that known bleakness.
And even the longest tomorrow descends into sunset,
the edge where light and night meet in its green flash,
a gifted glimmer when the black moon casts its power.
The pupa waits patiently for its own wings –– just as
my foetus curled in a dearth of flight. Our bodies carry
on growing at night, just as trees suck in light’s breath.
It is through our cracks that darkness lets, and culls our ghosts.
In that moment. a candle flames from its dark spill, music lifts
from its glow, the smell of waxing dread. And then, you speak.