inheritance

love met her at the crossroads of poetry.
or was it the other way around?
in a fading memory
they were still distinct.
and yet inseparable.
as the dust settled all she wanted
was to meet her benefactor.
once more.
(she wasn't sure why)
one or the other of them.
had left her an inheritance.
even as both repositories of magnanimity
had slipped away just as they had come.
in each other's raging company
on to other unbidden roads
of unsuspectingly hopeful travellers.

perhaps this is how it must be.
perhaps she is never to know
whose legacy it is.
that wistful longing
still searing through her heart.

seasons

it is the season of mauve flowers.
all year long the bare branches
of the jacaranda tree
stand. unflinchingly.
a sight unto themselves.
a life lesson.
pitiable. enviable.
 
until spring makes us forget
lets us see the world
through mauve tinted glasses.
floral flavours find favour.
and for one breezy season
we dream with our eyes open.

incandescent dreams
soon to be blinded and dimmed
by fierce and mellowing suns.

as the tree will turn itself over
to other seasonal onslaughts
it will be but the spring
of our discontent.
and the bare jacaranda
much like our vacant eyes
will follow trails of
the trampled remains
of once upon mauve loves.