The Song Dynasty
The Pink Roses fade into the Winter Chill.
I see them go…back, back, to the
unknown from whence they came.
It is November now..that mark of death.
Perhaps they’ll join the festival…the
Qingming Shanghe Tu
down by the river flowing long ago.
Each petal strung onto an Abacus,
To add and take away from time.
Pale petals…lilting in the morning light.
Departing to the underworld where song
is only heard by dynasties of ancient times,
By tribes and clans and lands
that are no more…
Where bones are fossilised
and spirits crystallised to float
around us all ….unseen by human eye.
Kristine Byrne 2nd Nov. 2018