Disconnected #22 by Gillian Prew

The tumble of autumn is maddening my eyes
all black and yellow
like the death of my father -
how he fell, or stopped falling, ever
rested in the glad bed of his terminal season. Still

unsure if I ever loved him, even the young man of him
who held the frailty of my mother for a single day.

Autumn, I hate you
even more than winter, even more
than the darkest possible hour - dark
only as a prelude to the lengthening of grass
and shades of purple bursting beyond bruises.

I belong to corrupted blood, I know
I know
red oil that traps flight in two sad eyes;
two maddened eyes,
two sorry pledges waiting for blossoms.

 
Currently living in Argyll, Scotland with her partner, two children and a
cat, Gillian Prew ditched philosophy in favour of poetry even though
the former still haunts her. She has three collections of poems and has
been published at Full of Crow, Carcinogenic Poetry, Gutter Eloquence, and
Gloom Cupboard.

She recently became an associate editor at Parapluie Publishing. Her blog,
proud spots and solitudes, can be found at http://gillianprew.blogspot.com/