The Fifth Season

nearly the end of Winter

not Spring. Not late but dark ;

the hunter`s moon dissolves as

moths take to the woods, as sparks.

As if I could form the night like clay

and wonder at the polar stars in my palm ;
but the turning wind has failed to stay.

Trees and late snow unblessed with the kiss

of early warmth ; trapped in the dead light of the

moor in sacred lands. It is

Reviews

[John]

A wonderfully mysterious atmosphere is evoked as the reader, like the poet, is trapped in a loop where the end of the poem takes you back to the beginning. Reading this is a slightly disquieting experience but an enjoyable one.

[I, Rene]

This could be a run on poem, to say, to start with the ending and begin again at the top,
"It is" poem body "not Spring" , rinse, repeat, ingeniously and beautifully artistic, I loved this.

[Pete Langley]

Leslie,
as a poet looking for the Grail, as we all are, this is as near as I have come to finding it on this site. I wanted this piece to go on and on, basking in the phrasing.
Thank you. This is a library piece for me. P.

[Firestone Feinberg]

This is fantastic. A sheer pleasure to read. Your style -- here -- is stunning. --David

[David Scott]

The oracle of Winter speaks. You pen a mood well. I could feel this starless night trapped "in the dead light of the moor". I had a dream just this morning with the feeling of the light of day clouded by the mist of the morning.
Well done.