Bronze

Were she made of iron
rain would have rotted those gears and cogs
displaying the determined veins
that -
now thinking about it -
resemble vines curling round an ancient temple.
For all sins forgive themselves
they have done their damage,
like foresters abandoning the clearing
only stumps remain,
too old to stretch to the heavens.

Glancing at the landscape,
recalling those walks in all weathers
kindling perserverance
like an on-time train
pulling in on the dot,
in the sweet shops we stopped,
those holidays weren't wastes
bearing daydreams and history,
riddling my mind with abstract knowledge
testing our patience with early foliage.

Nowadays, where to begin?
All logic sapped,
scraps of Shakespeare remain
along with the occasional song.
Soon
(how long is string?)
that lifeline to her time shall wither,
snapping like a dry twig.
Where was her turning point?
Were there bombs, crowded trains,
the taste of bananas or chocolate,
it says Church of England here
but Mother Bear said it was clear,
guessing blindness lures faith;
to see is to disbelieve.

She battles the blinding light
and suffocating darkness,
who are we to say
her gravity is outside reality,
the balance is beyond upset,
possibly alcohol and cigarettes,
but questioning cause
only affects the ailments.

We shall make the best
of her stained-glass enchantments.