Twelfth Night

 

Pining with your sisters

in every other garden.

Laying used and violated

next to the shed.

 

Tinsel traces

like expensive jewellery

draped from your

denuded, coat-hanger, limbs.

 

Ribs of dry twigs

poke from your green dress.

Ripped and torn

by seasons greetings.

 

Where once your heart

beat fast and true

there now rattles

the hollow scratch of beetles.

 

Frost will melt

and drip from your bauble eyes.

Winter tears

of deep regret.

 

Forsaken by angels,

bereft of light,

you gently settle

into shadows.

 

When summer comes

you will be found

like a draft of chilled air

breaking from the ground.

 

And we will think

of December.