Advent.

Early December.
The sun a polished mirror.
The sky pastel blue.

I skid on bone china.

The ice bound streets break hearts,
shins, skulls.
Dogs limp on frozen paws.

All forms of life seem fragile,
rice paper blown upon the wind;
the lace leaves spiral.

I stare into the sun.
I want to buy this moment,
preserve it in my locker;

trap it like a dream
on pre war celluloid.

Today is so unreal,
a store of muted colours,
all objects made to melt.

I stare into the sun.
Shards of frozen glass
pierce my dazzled eyes,

piece my pounding heart
with a dread of dissolution.

Late blooming roses
poised on leafless stems
hint of somewhere different.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 4th. - 6th. - 8th. 2016.