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Mark A Heathcote


Manchester, England, UK

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Winters last apple


Mark A Heathcote

As the worlds dimming-dimensions
Grew dimmer and hurriedly, darker.
I saw a thing crimson as it sweetens?
Temptations apple waxing—brighter!
The hour the date I don’t remember
It might have been in mid-November.

Ah, immortality, naked on a branch?
Suspends heavenly that rotting heart
Whose flesh now weighs heavily blanch.
In time! I guess it would also depart_?
Those lowly branches in which it hung.
Static with pleasure and joy as it clung.

In red shimmering, shades of autumn.
A spool of leafs claret red, autumnal-gold.
Spun wreaths; around the trees serfdom.
Whilst a pungent; canker of air cajoled.
About; the glassy shell, both yoke and balm.
I watched—daily, until this last aplomb!

Fell burning like a midnight’s sun.
Sweet in my eyes this golden affair!
That even starlings didn’t dare, thrum.
With feathered wings or tongues fanfare!
From humble, beginnings, a sanctum;
A bauble held aloft the eyes of Satan.