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,


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


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