Poor Players


Submitted by Jane Dougherty

To stop the final turning of the year,
Sunset bringing night, no morning after,
We strut beneath the over-arching sky,
Rant upon this stage and shake our puny fists
At the hapless clouds and retching sea,
As if all are to blame but the players.
This journey almost over, river-run,
We feel the bone-cold rise from misty ground,
Where light seeps into water, dusty pearls,
And nothing is what we hoped; no rounded dreams,
Nothing recalls the tang of unseen seas,
The lush and velvet scent of hot night skin,
The arrogant cry, gold-plumed and sun-struck flight,
Of the tumultuous firebird of youth.

Photo Credit: Hubert Roestenburg – s’hertogenbosch


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