 
Rubric
Stretched gold, long flung
broken by silver poplars
into shade across the stubble,
the yellow, shaven field.
Two crows sit on a wire
and soak, in the light
soft blazing on reddened hedgerow,
flame patience on the turning trees.
The light rests on the rust,
a tractor shell under the copse-eaves –
a relic.
The decades are winning
the rust chewed skeleton
is a surrender in red.
Transience is holy
in the cooling air.
Strong gold, amber, soft honey
sinking through birdsong.
The sky fades from blue to red.
The last hot flush remembers blossom
in the pouting black berry,
the plump apples,
the drunken glory
of fat wasps.
Rubric
The Bell Tolls for Hemingway
E.H. / Fire in the Life of Ernest Hemingway
Fierce percussive collapse,
explosions in a wood-fire.
Cut tinder – green skin splits
and squeals, spits,
opens the white fibre to char-lick.
Secret fire under the brow
hidden in the clatter of typebars.
You painted Italy in blazing detail,
rich simplicity,
too bad you drowned yourself -
Heat cheats your bubbling veins,
your vermouth comes in pints.
Quenched your white-hot-wit, boiled to leather,
wet-ash wreckage.
A Cinzano Farewell.
It must have been a quick death,
a percussive collapse. Explosions.
In a brief, incandescent second,
fire for lost fire -
The Sun Also Sets. The Bell Tolls for Hemingway
Costa November
The leaf is a wave.
A shifting sea floods the grass.
Wind whirls a dry storm.
I walk the water
and I tread the leaves
beneath the other sea,
the high heavy ocean:
silent, grey-white
unhurried speed,
sky tide.
At ebb, the moon drifts,
becalmed in day-blue,
pale in foreign waters.
At flood, the weak sun sinks.
Sop cloud mountain,
black tsunami,
wave break.
The rain kisses bark,
blushed black under sea-fall
Drowned leaves as beached fish. Costa November
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Sta.sh
