Now these clouds, the cold mean greys
sideways rain, the north lands I remember
the drowning air of smoke and fire
nights traveling the dark road to your home
the black and spark of stars we watched
through the night before the killing dawn
before the fog, the cold that held us down
the clinch and grasp, the slow stinging wasp
the allure and hum of bees
the honey meadows of scattered petals
only a fleeting summer – we gathered
now swallowed in the autumn thunder,
the bruising cold of November.