The Gift

Crouched beneath a rising moon I see them

strewn beneath the Firethorns: fallen stars, devil-red

and smelling of bees’ wings.

Without a second thought I gather an armful

and drop them in my basket, visions of her requital

glistening inside my ego.

I wouldn’t! A voice, sweet as a fig, sings out to me

rushing like an unstoppable wave of magma

through a congeries of shadows.

They may be beautiful but they are dying, it sighs

as the rain falls, a thin drizzle of mockery

that clings to my skin like alamine.

I hurry indoors, eager to lay my gift at her feet

but those luminous rubicund orbs have melted

into figments of dark matter.

Back in the garden a soft green light cools the soil.

Only night birds now, picking the flesh from the last

few fragments of starbone.