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Description
Golden dawn
And from a single seed she sprouts, eyes open to her new world.
Hundreds of arms race to grasp the sun in their silky hands,
while beneath these tender shoots of youth, her body steadily grows,
a coarse mass of experience, expanding constantly as
her emerald, paper-thin hands rip, tear and snap in the wind,
only to be replaced by eager new arrivals.
Her tough skin stretches, now brittle. He shatters, falling deliberately down,
skirmishing with young hands, ascending in this social hierarchy;
Ultimately failing, drifting onwards, traversing the air-waves to his distant destination,
joining the eldest hands, grovelling at her feet, he settles around her ankles,
gazing briefly out over this picturesque landscape of death and corrosion,
before, joined by several compatriots, he ventures in himself.

And as this brutal virus devours the tough skin, condemned now to join
the initial breakaway, previously concealed colours come to life.
The soft, fleshy tissue of her remains sends vigour to the newest hands.
Now taking hold of this lease of life, they take their role.
As zealously as those founding hands did compete to seize divinity,
previously paltry fists thrusting through the air, tearing it apart,
now transformed from these stumps, radiantly burst out fingers.
Petite, conical slips of velvet dazzle her now unbecoming hands;
Send shocks of astonishment straight down to her core where they glow
at invariable lustre, never to be diminished, while at the hands, buds flower,
stretching their wings to form striking patterns, glistening amethyst in the sun,
before, with a punch, a radical hand dispels a single flower
that sails the ever-warmer gusts down to her feet, settling now as a dazzling glint
among the putrid remains of her infancy.

August Noon
Her wings shook their blossom, hands gradually developed.
Some learnt defiance, resisted an extended winter chill,
while others were impeded in their growth, delayed in their race for dominance.
But the swallow now accompanies the sunrise, riding a temperate breeze,
piercing the remainders of desperate frost still clasping on to her hands.
Liquefied, it scuttles down through complex mazes of veins to her fingers,
suspended for one last second at the tips, before plummeting down to earth,
gathering speed, colliding with hand after hand, engaging in fierce, if brief, conflicts,
yet ultimately brushed aside, driven down further towards the now-baked mud.
Dashed on the rigid soil, it shatters, and joined by another globule, coats a brittle leaf,
which snaps, consequently buried beneath a further torrent of fingertips and skin,
joining flakes of nail, membrane and flesh, the remnants of a troubled past;
The leftovers of a winter before her dawn now nurturing the very hands that will soon
fall from grace to diversify the eternal view of festering decay from which she grows.

The days went slowly, but still the days elapsed, grew shorter, darker, then forgotten.
And though she’d never known another colour in her luxurious emerald hands,
as the light began to dissipate, an orange tinge framed those delicate pointed fingers,
so essential to the continuation of her fragile mortal existence in this world.
Now, urged on by their tremendous lack of adequate time, where fingertips once fell,
crumpled back to measly stumps, they grow once more, yet this time oddly deformed.
A thick, circular callous slowly matures, turned grey, such is its absence of life,
nonetheless, secretly veiling a power gone unnoticed by its creator.
Then suddenly, maturity reached, this callous hums, trembles, and with a burst of life,
sprouts wings, and glimmering in the midday glare of an august Sun, breaks free.
Now airborne, he smiles, flapping merrily along, away from his grand architect,
before settling in the warm, hospitable soil, still moist from a late summer’s rain.

Autumn Moon
Quivering slightly with the strain from the weight of its inhabitant - the decrepit
vestiges of what was once a glorious wooden palace of a now lifeless lark;
A frail limb, soon to break on account of constant interrogation from a vile gust,
begins to feel a fault at its tip, where a single hand clings desperately,
as the few fine ligaments, the barriers between life and death, prosperity and poverty
snap, one by one, ‘til nothing is left, and with a sharp crack, a single hand dies.
Only seconds after beginning its dive, this hand begins to dry, crumple, tan,
and is then followed by a fellow citizen, broken by the storm’s violent assault,
until the entire base of this ubiquitous deity is surrounded by a rich montage of colours.
Crimson, gold, ginger, russet, all lie in formation around her ankles, on their knees,
praying in unison to their giant idol, paying with their uncontrollable self-sacrifice,
conversely, still unbeknown to their master, laying waste to her, little by little.
And when the next storm arrives and passes, in its wake they shall see the result.

Resting on a weary arm, oblivious to the devastation by which she is encompassed,
the swallow that arrived in times of glory now sleeps, head tucked, wings folded,
upon a little, brittle branch, dreaming of times gone by, of happiness, of warmth,
caring not for the cries of feeble hands, calling out for her to pull them back to light.
When, unexpectedly, a stronger current picks up her wings, forcing her departure
from her summer home, and now she shrieks her songs of sorrow, echoing through
this great forest, in harmony with the hushed squeals of ten thousand hands.
She glides from side to side, darting into the canopy, crashing into countless more,
before flitting hurriedly out again, after making her agony known to the far horizon.
Now a pure voice behind the silent screams, she ducks for one last glance
before, rising further into the sky, she speeds south to rejoin her kin
and soar above the weather currents, in search of more pleasant climes…
But not without leaving her mark on the arm’s delicate skin, a reminder of her visit.
Her humble abode, now abandoned, is not devoid of life, for three small, speckled
globes now lie, still warm, nestled firmly into a corner, out of sight from all but none.

Glacial Invasion
Or so she thought, for an unwanted visitor, hungry, desperate from the bitter frost,
now anxiously approaches the small timber cage, and searching for the smallest scrap,
finds so much more, a golden treasure hidden away, and looking cautiously around,
sees naught in sight, and thus, with a gasp of enthusiasm, withdraws the three orbs.
Fortune clutched firmly under her wing, she takes flight, returning to her young,
to profit on another’s calamity, though eggs now forgotten, misfortune vanishes.
Back in the relics of an earthly heaven, she now stands bare, stripped completely of life,
lifeless, limbless and utterly unmoving, excluding times when clusters of snow fall,
thumping the remaining boughs, frozen beneath a layer of seemingly permanent ice.
The hands not given their dying wishes, but frozen, compact, in a single mass grave,
Veins still full, shape staying dormant, the cryogenic effect of winter taking its toll.
And all the while, their God, her first words so full of promise, is now left with nothing;
Nothing but a stripped skeleton, encircled by a throng of empty, unresponsive minions,
who she saw fit to dispose of at her own will, the actions of a fallen angel,
herself, merely a worker for the grand master, Sylvanus, she coldly weeps and prays.

As bitterness took its hold, destroying all evident life in sight, her situation deteriorated.
Tears broke through the very skin holding her together, yet had no time to fall,
purely joined the slabs of rime, huge cascading static clumps, where all was the same.
Her own sweet tears joined those of heaven, the two camouflaging one another.
Losing all hope, she retreated into herself, to the core where it was still warm,
her agony gone entirely unnoticed, there she stayed, awaiting dawn’s return.
Now, although dying in her miserable, bitter state, the promise of dawn out of reach,
her legacy lives on, albeit without her knowledge, through her secret offspring.
Long gone an age ago, forgotten and abused, she still survives a glacial assault,
buried far beneath scores of dead hands, feeding off what’s left of her mother.
She gains strength, defies the intolerable vice of near arctic conditions.
Now ready for her turn to show how she is stronger, sturdier than all those who came
before her, she braces herself for the last of the cold, preparing for reincarnation…

Golden Dawn: Revisited
And from a single seed she sprouts...

Description
Golden dawn
And from a single seed she sprouts, eyes open to her new world.
Hundreds of arms race to grasp the sun in their silky hands,
while beneath these tender shoots of youth, her body steadily grows,
a coarse mass of experience, expanding constantly as
her emerald, paper-thin hands rip, tear and snap in the wind,
only to be replaced by eager new arrivals.
Her tough skin stretches, now brittle. He shatters, falling deliberately down,
skirmishing with young hands, ascending in this social hierarchy;
Ultimately failing, drifting onwards, traversing the air-waves to his distant destination,
joining the eldest hands, grovelling at her feet, he settles around her ankles,
gazing briefly out over this picturesque landscape of death and corrosion,
before, joined by several compatriots, he ventures in himself.

And as this brutal virus devours the tough skin, condemned now to join
the initial breakaway, previously concealed colours come to life.
The soft, fleshy tissue of her remains sends vigour to the newest hands.
Now taking hold of this lease of life, they take their role.
As zealously as those founding hands did compete to seize divinity,
previously paltry fists thrusting through the air, tearing it apart,
now transformed from these stumps, radiantly burst out fingers.
Petite, conical slips of velvet dazzle her now unbecoming hands;
Send shocks of astonishment straight down to her core where they glow
at invariable lustre, never to be diminished, while at the hands, buds flower,
stretching their wings to form striking patterns, glistening amethyst in the sun,
before, with a punch, a radical hand dispels a single flower
that sails the ever-warmer gusts down to her feet, settling now as a dazzling glint
among the putrid remains of her infancy.

August Noon
Her wings shook their blossom, hands gradually developed.
Some learnt defiance, resisted an extended winter chill,
while others were impeded in their growth, delayed in their race for dominance.
But the swallow now accompanies the sunrise, riding a temperate breeze,
piercing the remainders of desperate frost still clasping on to her hands.
Liquefied, it scuttles down through complex mazes of veins to her fingers,
suspended for one last second at the tips, before plummeting down to earth,
gathering speed, colliding with hand after hand, engaging in fierce, if brief, conflicts,
yet ultimately brushed aside, driven down further towards the now-baked mud.
Dashed on the rigid soil, it shatters, and joined by another globule, coats a brittle leaf,
which snaps, consequently buried beneath a further torrent of fingertips and skin,
joining flakes of nail, membrane and flesh, the remnants of a troubled past;
The leftovers of a winter before her dawn now nurturing the very hands that will soon
fall from grace to diversify the eternal view of festering decay from which she grows.

The days went slowly, but still the days elapsed, grew shorter, darker, then forgotten.
And though she’d never known another colour in her luxurious emerald hands,
as the light began to dissipate, an orange tinge framed those delicate pointed fingers,
so essential to the continuation of her fragile mortal existence in this world.
Now, urged on by their tremendous lack of adequate time, where fingertips once fell,
crumpled back to measly stumps, they grow once more, yet this time oddly deformed.
A thick, circular callous slowly matures, turned grey, such is its absence of life,
nonetheless, secretly veiling a power gone unnoticed by its creator.
Then suddenly, maturity reached, this callous hums, trembles, and with a burst of life,
sprouts wings, and glimmering in the midday glare of an august Sun, breaks free.
Now airborne, he smiles, flapping merrily along, away from his grand architect,
before settling in the warm, hospitable soil, still moist from a late summer’s rain.

Autumn Moon
Quivering slightly with the strain from the weight of its inhabitant - the decrepit
vestiges of what was once a glorious wooden palace of a now lifeless lark;
A frail limb, soon to break on account of constant interrogation from a vile gust,
begins to feel a fault at its tip, where a single hand clings desperately,
as the few fine ligaments, the barriers between life and death, prosperity and poverty
snap, one by one, ‘til nothing is left, and with a sharp crack, a single hand dies.
Only seconds after beginning its dive, this hand begins to dry, crumple, tan,
and is then followed by a fellow citizen, broken by the storm’s violent assault,
until the entire base of this ubiquitous deity is surrounded by a rich montage of colours.
Crimson, gold, ginger, russet, all lie in formation around her ankles, on their knees,
praying in unison to their giant idol, paying with their uncontrollable self-sacrifice,
conversely, still unbeknown to their master, laying waste to her, little by little.
And when the next storm arrives and passes, in its wake they shall see the result.

Resting on a weary arm, oblivious to the devastation by which she is encompassed,
the swallow that arrived in times of glory now sleeps, head tucked, wings folded,
upon a little, brittle branch, dreaming of times gone by, of happiness, of warmth,
caring not for the cries of feeble hands, calling out for her to pull them back to light.
When, unexpectedly, a stronger current picks up her wings, forcing her departure
from her summer home, and now she shrieks her songs of sorrow, echoing through
this great forest, in harmony with the hushed squeals of ten thousand hands.
She glides from side to side, darting into the canopy, crashing into countless more,
before flitting hurriedly out again, after making her agony known to the far horizon.
Now a pure voice behind the silent screams, she ducks for one last glance
before, rising further into the sky, she speeds south to rejoin her kin
and soar above the weather currents, in search of more pleasant climes…
But not without leaving her mark on the arm’s delicate skin, a reminder of her visit.
Her humble abode, now abandoned, is not devoid of life, for three small, speckled
globes now lie, still warm, nestled firmly into a corner, out of sight from all but none.

Glacial Invasion
Or so she thought, for an unwanted visitor, hungry, desperate from the bitter frost,
now anxiously approaches the small timber cage, and searching for the smallest scrap,
finds so much more, a golden treasure hidden away, and looking cautiously around,
sees naught in sight, and thus, with a gasp of enthusiasm, withdraws the three orbs.
Fortune clutched firmly under her wing, she takes flight, returning to her young,
to profit on another’s calamity, though eggs now forgotten, misfortune vanishes.
Back in the relics of an earthly heaven, she now stands bare, stripped completely of life,
lifeless, limbless and utterly unmoving, excluding times when clusters of snow fall,
thumping the remaining boughs, frozen beneath a layer of seemingly permanent ice.
The hands not given their dying wishes, but frozen, compact, in a single mass grave,
Veins still full, shape staying dormant, the cryogenic effect of winter taking its toll.
And all the while, their God, her first words so full of promise, is now left with nothing;
Nothing but a stripped skeleton, encircled by a throng of empty, unresponsive minions,
who she saw fit to dispose of at her own will, the actions of a fallen angel,
herself, merely a worker for the grand master, Sylvanus, she coldly weeps and prays.

As bitterness took its hold, destroying all evident life in sight, her situation deteriorated.
Tears broke through the very skin holding her together, yet had no time to fall,
purely joined the slabs of rime, huge cascading static clumps, where all was the same.
Her own sweet tears joined those of heaven, the two camouflaging one another.
Losing all hope, she retreated into herself, to the core where it was still warm,
her agony gone entirely unnoticed, there she stayed, awaiting dawn’s return.
Now, although dying in her miserable, bitter state, the promise of dawn out of reach,
her legacy lives on, albeit without her knowledge, through her secret offspring.
Long gone an age ago, forgotten and abused, she still survives a glacial assault,
buried far beneath scores of dead hands, feeding off what’s left of her mother.
She gains strength, defies the intolerable vice of near arctic conditions.
Now ready for her turn to show how she is stronger, sturdier than all those who came
before her, she braces herself for the last of the cold, preparing for reincarnation…

Golden Dawn: Revisited
And from a single seed she sprouts...