DW Myatt: This Is The Season

This Is The Season

This is the season of Sun breaking past low, yellow, altocumulus cloud
When but a smallness of heat from our star
Seeps into body
To be the dream of Summer
And cloud-white Cumulus clouds build to billow
There
Where sea-horizon cuts that Winter-blue of sky
With waveful sea-green grey:

Here
I am only Thought flowing with Feeling
As the olding body aches -
Tired from the hard week of work -
And there is no hand, no warming hand,
To clasp since this solitary being has been left seemingly bereft
Of love:
Long gone, the wife, who died;
Three years since the tempestuosity of the beautiful
Stormful Fran
Who - slowly broken - sunk into darkest sadness
As wrecked ship to sunless bed of sea below:
No joy to anchor her back
So that stark self-made Death
Came to claim her, there
When Spring made flowers bloom
With such scent as holds us
Transfixed, transformed, to dream to be
The child we were, or surely should have been.

Yet there is something, now
Holding me here uncrying
Since the waves, tidefully-creeping,
Break upon this earthly rocky-shore
Where breeze brings
Scent, one sense, of Summer
And that cloud
There
Seeps to be her smiling face
Above such memories of love
As kept us harboured
Amid our stormful storms of Autumn Life.

Thus am I here,
Not forgotten
And not now - never -
Alone

DW Myatt