This piece is a reflection on the circles of life.
An old man walks on the river's bank.
(I hear his dry bones clink and clank)
but his shadow's swift, his hauteur vain.
Like fast jets low over Salisbury Plain.
Dead leaves packed in many gutters,
overlook the creaking, bolted shutters.
Winter's a-coming round again.
The birds abandon concrete, frozen terrain.
When daylight's just a state of mind,
a fleeting phase of the nuisance kind,
dawn slides silent in, and then the rain.
Snowfalls conceal to deceive in their train.
The rolling years accelerate,
even, at times, perseverate.
As if to cheer for their certain reign.
Young men read de Beauvoir on the London plane.
Recall last Summer's lusty march,
warm uplands it has yet to parch;
one more link in the seasons' chain.
Dog days remembered, sacred and profane.
Chris Hubbard, 2018.