S.A.D

For a day or two a warm green taste escapes the diesel fumes, the heavy air hangs low & pulls us close enough to hear electric whispers on the wind announce the verdant birth of Spring…

then routine returns to smother it all in bullshit: birdsong becomes just more white noise we all ignore.

Spring soon ends & then, somehow languorous yet sudden, sullen evening light of summer begins again another doomed attempt at bringing colour into every hour of each dilating day.

Autumn begins: I hear violins, a sigh that heaves from everything, as the light takes on a melancholy tinge: austere admixture of fading green & deep orange as the once-whispering wind devours the trees.

Now snow falls like dove feathers laying quiet & still until dawn’s frail purity breaks beneath our feet, the mixed-up air already containing greater darkness, low hanging Sun; the light still bright but bleached out & luminescent, clouds lingering white phosphorus, as if the winter sky is a war crime above us.

Every year becomes this: the flower’s imperceptible blooming, slowly turning towards decay;

slow to remember & quick to forget how the season’s elision fucks with our head(s).