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Proserpina

By , Melbourne, Australia

Six rosy kernels, ruby teeth,
From waxy husk are shed.
Stolen from their red-brown sheath,
In the garden of the dead.

Cupped in her whitened palm,
Past silent, flaking lips.
Six broken words, whispered with calm,
Six doors barred, six sunken ships.

One for distant clouds,
And sudden ice laced gusts.
As dry earth yearns for sodden shrouds,
And relief from muddied crusts.

One for the first Autumn rains,
Crisp skies and rising dew.
Murky rivers spread like splitting veins,
As fresh gold carpet forms anew.

One for puddles in the road,
As grey and mist set in,
The trees have all but shed their load,
Branches bare and thin.

One for morning crystals on the grass,
For steaming clouds of breath.
For wind and rain blasting at the glass,
As life lies dormant, or in death.

One for slimy blades and stalks,
That poke above the white.
For silent snows and heavy walks,
For a sharper, colder night.

One for weeping skies and budding sticks,
For leaves polished in the melt.
Hope, the last of the ruby six,
And yet the strongest felt.

And as the smoking columns rage,
They crack the cold and dry the rains.
And as it roars on, our fossil age,
Only the sixth remains.






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