esteldeirdre | Lore of self-forgetting

Green days surrender: their reign has passed
and left the scent of sand and cherry wine and dandling afternoons
that never ended. Open the cupboard – and there they are:
on shuffled mirror images in glory and perfection

and dots that flies have left. Street organ of the autumn
is starting bouncing for memories of red and yellow in drizzling city lights
and mice-like movements when the heap of leaves is rattling softly
on wet sweet ground of the dosing garden.

All cats and dogs have rained. Sly rats are celebrating:
they feast on the remains of golden castles that summer sun has built.
Look: every brick is crashing, cracking, crumbling - and dim becomes.
My head is up in clouds – I am calm

with calmness of the gods that made up Avalon.
They tasted to the full the rule: no active intervention in matters
that bother humans. Plus lore of self-forgetting. Never more
Will ravens fly my path of doubts and illusions.

I change my coat to the warmer one as cobra changes skin.
I drink my morning coffee in the morning that looks more like a night.
And falling in the daily autumn groove I gently whisper:
God, may it rest in peace all that is doomed…
…to rest or agitation.