I understand your essence,
that you cannot help yourself,
that Gaia turned her face away from Sol.
Is it a gesture? A way to give her succour?
You let her have a song to sing
while I endure the tempest?
Fickle Winter, you do me a disservice.
Sometimes, you are beautiful and show me
tiny miracles of light, prismatic splashes,
a rainbow tightly spiralled;
diamonds in the snow. But on the whole,
you are irascible;
bury me in bluster, turn my joie de vivre
to dust, reduce my lust to dance
to minimal desire.
It’s hard to love a lover who enslaves you with caprice.
I dread each visit.
You begin to kill kinetic.
Why so cruel?
I curl away from you,
count away the days of your existence,
will the axis underneath our feet
to twist and shift your grip.
I accept I may be jaded.
A half-a-span relationship will chip away at cheer.
When we were young, I did not think you drab and drear.
I was eager for your mouth before the mists
and mellow fruitfulness began,
before the close bosom-friend of the sun
had thought to end.
I loved you more than Gaia did, back then.
But circles turn, life goes on.
Contempt was born of all the times we lay
in lull and hush, in the perfume of our love.
And now it’s gone.
You gave your song to her to sing
I light a lamp for what has been,
close the curtains on a dream,
and sleep until you slip away from me.