“Language is the house for all that is no more.”
(Quignard, The Fount of Time) via @yoonkim.bsky.social
"Strange Season
Winter sun, · world warming,
Leaf crackle, · crisp air, colourful,
Swishing underfoot, · dying.
Cold nip on · numb fingers
Frost fiend · forever threatening life.
Chill chasing chill, · till we choose heat.
Fire crackles well, · wood spit warming us,
Fearful, fur full, · Feast Hall hot,
As trees drop leaves, · colour-carpeting paths
Silver lattice work · glitters in sunlight.
Eye level · light blinds
Breath smokes · but beauty abounds,
Doom laden, · but lovely
No hint of new life · till years change."
—Tony Mitchell at FGR
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