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The seasons shave and smother it.

The air sculpts its unmoving brow.

It sniffs the summer swell, the winter

Drain. It slopes supinely, ever unstirred,

Constrained in its death-feigned being.

Its soul shifts like the ocean deep, ageless

And ceaseless, only briefly torn from

The eager undertow of forgetfulness.

Yet still it harbours the early warmth

Of spring, the cautious caress of life

Yet unspooled, the morose magenta

Dusk, the long sting and sleepless still.