Flowers open and fade,

trees sigh as branches crack in the wind,

and the stripped leaves bleed red into the earth.

Waves wash blue then grey,

rain rattles cold or feather-soft.

Movement there is,

in dust motes and the clouds,

in the wind and waves

and the flight of the swan.

Change and decay,

though our feet are planted firm,

and we shout loud at the waning moon, the setting sun.

Nothing stands still,

not even the stars

that are dead and dry as dust

beyond their false glitter.