Cthonic corrupting breast,
Enlarge and shrink the gasping chest
In wheeling pulsing progress,
Whirling ever without rest.
Leaves that fall as all
Things grapple with the coil
Of growth and death and toil;
Birth of fire in the Cauldron’s roil.
Stars whirl and spin and guide
With shifting, fleeting, noble light
Blunted swift by solar might:
In shimmering skies the Glories hide.
Limbs guide the ageless drive
Of all things with will to thrive,
Then usher in the fleeting life
And gutter among the ancient knives.
Tears spring hard and faster dry
Over rotting corpses in loam to lie.
Turning cycles are ever fae –
It remains a privilege to die.
Photo credit to Jessica Davies, view through the window of the caravan we lived in for several months, looking toward the sea at sunset.