I was lingering amidst the skeins of light
that fold and shatter between the buildings
on George and Pitt.
Standing in a sliver of warmth inside that juxtaposing tenebrism.
And someone had thrown flowers into a bin.
Flowers always wilt; the colour always begins
to seep into the ground, the petals droop,
then float with a mournful pallor to the earth.
Fading like the kaleidoscopic confetti flung out
over veiled love at the churchyard door.
Yet, for that momentary dalliance of incantatory pleasure,
I saw the sunlight drop onto the petals in the rubbish bin
and the fragrance lingered like a latter-day epigraph
chiseled to recall Daphnis’ songs.
Seeing them land
and thinking, could this be more than a moment?
Uncertain symbolism in unclear days leaving nothing.
Except the hopes of my heart
and my soul tinged the colour of the petals.
And it reminded me of reading poetry in bars.
Of the half-light reflecting redness into the wine
flowing on those nights when our cheeks ached
and I felt for a moment of brief joy
that perhaps the delusion was reality.
Someone in a building above had drawn their blinds.
The golden champagne of summer dissipated from the street.
Come was darkness again
with funerary clouds traversing above my life
and I watched as the bouquet wilted, turned into corruption.
