Gary Robinson

The Death of Nature...

The stalks of nameless plants
rattle like rice in bloody silhouette
on the curtain of my window
shaking and twisting in a
macabre mime of cold tongues.

Outside the blonde rectangle,
there is a truce of clouds while
light takes this winter day under its
arms and sews stripes of blue.

What to do when mind
and its moth camoflauge
rest on fiction frozen as
branches, hour in
minute pieces,
but thought looks for
a spine to grapple
or swim to like a sea
sediment rising in
alluvial stories
and settings of love.

I watch the show on the curtains
a frenzy of signatures
snatching shadows and a
narrative, crowd pleaser
for one, one enough.

Then my pen
and a king who searches
the caverns of dragons
seeking a trickle of green noise
or a bed of steaming rocks.

Yes, we fall together
are linked in our worlds
the death of nature on
this day fermentation
in a writer's mind.