Out there in the vinyl black,
where scores of rock kissed the heavens’ track,
The planet of Being was a stable motif
There, in the music of the spheres.
And at the Being’s northern-most point—
Although often confused and facing the south—
There were seven seasons, each a clave,
And each more like itself than the last.
The first of these seasons shared its name
With the month with which it shared its time:
Salt, of sixty days, when Being’s moons
Savoured their time of night,
And whose reflected light
Brought glory to the sky.
Yet it was a most tempestuous month:
Cold, bitterly so, with winds coming in
From east, from west,
From neither, or from both.
And snow, green snow, that furnished all like moss…
Note: so fractured is the planet of Being that its story is incomplete.
© Andrew Neil Carpenter
Response to our Inspiration Call on August 10th, 2016
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Photo credit: © pixabay.com
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