Mouldy old log at the turning of the year…

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Mouldy old log at the turning of the year,
once green,
now dead,
lacking sap.

Sad year passing,
gone,
dead.

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Watch the turning,
burning of the season,
till white ash snow,
melting brings life,
again.

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Not immortality
for that mouldy old log at the turning of the year
is dead,
but new life springs fresh
forcing through cracked,
raw, hardened earth,
starting again,

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and that is what we, also,
should do…on and on…season after season…starting anew.

© Andrew Pratt 31/12/2019

At the turning of the year…

The danger of a storm of cliches hovers in the wings…
metaphors mix it with each other…
tides turn, seas ebb…
moons set, suns rise…
worlds spin on their axes…

Strange that marking a year’s end
and a new beginning
feels like a monument rising,
a tower falling,
a significant event
when naming of days is arbitrary.

The rev-counting globe,
moon’s phases
are built in,
each day the same,
undifferentiated.

So why this apprehension?

Why my uncertainty?

Fear,
that death is nearer than it was?

Arrogance,
importing significance to tasks left incomplete?

The intractable magnetism of mystery,
drawing and repelling?

The cliches are gathering…

Andrew Pratt 27/12/2018