Corre lontano chi non torna mai*

The forest fell from fingers
laced without remorse to penumbra,
A prima vista**, wrapped in her breath
of association. I called
and forgot the mulberry needs
to place all in heed, those folding homes
to be the mocked in requiem,
quel ch’è fatto, è fatto***, strong
was her soul and winter winds,
tattered and torn to hide the world,
and promises, promises came
to whittle daydreams in fields
of coarse land, prepared with seeds
that lapse and caress truth,
and I was there in my death,
al fine****, to the end.

*He runs far who never turns
**At first sight
***What is done is done
****To the end


Poem © Phen Weston, 2016.


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