Seasons

Death is changeless, death
and the wilted primrose.
Egg is mating-time when nightingales
serenade their catch,
with melodies of their ravishing beauty.
And piquant fire flies brighten
the ambience of the thick night.

And we love to see,
babies cuddle so lovely
in mother's strong arms.
Toys stacked up in heaps,
broken but once cherished by kids.

Yes, we love to see,
fools forsake folly for freedom,
thatched rushes replaced
by corrugated iron sheets.

Now, slowly we enjoy
the thrill of the evening tide,
washing ashore,
exposing our shriveled bodies.
Gladly we await,
on our jars of clay,
the promise of death.