Black Passing

by Aidan Andrew Dun

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The black country
night of the present
time goes clinking with
silver down the land
small cries of newborn life
and the constellations
in the rocking dark
of late-August dog-days
when the near star rages
and Isis goes howling
for the body of summer
lately slain in rising winds
his golden torso
broken.

These early signs
of death in the year
and loss, the escaping
quality of life
show more brutally
the small divisions
ownership and loneliness
everywhere here.
The year falls stumbling
down, old hobo
landless traveller
across the earth
mendicant time
who wears tattered
clothes, whose hair
is matted and thick
with experience.

And the last
country-night of
the royal stars
sighs in a long
black avenue of limes
pines for the outcast
in deepening obscurity
who runs in his
exodus westward:
once-green messiah
of the bells and horns
hat full of rainbows
and coloured twilights:
crowned king of
imperious summer, gone.



 

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