The Cocoon

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This night,

It hasn’t dressed me for the morning:

I’m still in a cocoon

Of interwoven blacks and blues

/

Staring at dawn,

I cannot feel daylight returning,

Or touching me –

It’s just a colour, of no use

/

To me,

A terribly disturbed spectator,

Watching an artist’s brush,

Envying him his muse

/

To me,

Self-tried and sentenced perpetrator,

Sharing the maze-like cell

With my self-righteous jury

/

Tonight

I put my hands over my eyes and

I sew them up

With threads as strong as needles

/

I lock my nightmares

From the outside world within me:

They’ll be

The only things I see for years

/

I’ll write of them

And paint them with my blind hands;

One day

I’ll hear you ask me: ‘what is that?’

/

I won’t reply;

With monsters pushing through

My numb lips,

I’ll go to sleep in my cocoon instead

The Fifth Season

You asked for summer –

And it’s at your threshold,

In robes of burning leaves

Of dry, exhausted soil

/

Afraid of heat and draught,

You begged for autumn

And, crying rains, it came

To wail outside your door

/

Scared of its open wounds,

You called for winter

Who, like a blizzard, swift

All ice, distress and cold,

/

Appeared, but it was spring

You thought you wanted:

Capricious, lukewarm, shy

It came, but you recoiled

/

You locked your home,

Inventing a fifth season,

Which looked like summer,

Smelled like autumn herbs,

/

Which had the grace

And fierceness of a winter

And laughed, like spring,

At your uncanny jokes