Metamorphosis FIFTEEN

Day 15

The Swan Princess : Kirsty A Niven

The moon above, a broken egg-shell,

a glimmer of light, a hope unfulfilled,

I wait for the dance to begin,

the flurry of feathers, a spell shed. 

I look out over this lake of tears,

a reflection white and ghostly –

a haunted woman, longing

to swan dive into its depths. 

Closer to Leda than true love,

surrounded by burst yolks

and drowning in a static grief. 

AUTUMN LEAVES : Clive Donavan

I would that when I die I turn

The gorgeous aspect of autumnal leaves,

Not needing paints funereal,

Nor needles of formaldehyde:

Reddish hues, near impossible to name,

Vermeil hints, tints of yellow,

A mellow gold never attained

In commercial tanning salons.

Add a purple splash but, please, no bruise

From hospital inserted tube

Nor haemorrhage of blood congealed;

More rich than Royal, say, more like,

Oh, I don't know,

An Angel's blushing memory

Of an Antique God.

No blues, no whites.

A tracery of veins, brownish,

Shading to a sort of lemony blemishing

At the edges; just a touch of black

And a coruscation of a once-young green

Now hardly seen beneath the

Splendorous refulgence of

The colours of my leaving...

                              My delicate fall.