Withering Away (Poetry)

It’s sad to see the withered fruit
that once hung fresh and firm
when chill the winds of autumn blow
and ageing beauties yearn
for clear-eyed youth and raven hair
skin moist with summer’s dew
and energies that pump like sap —
go coursing vital though
supple limbs that dance and sway
in time with living’s tune
November seemed a world away
back then — when it was June.

The flesh was sweet, the skin unflawed
the juice so warm within
since soured with the changing days
each gentle joke’s worn thin
a pucker here — and there a scar
a broken vein — a bruise
the more that grew to perfect shape
the more to slowly lose
and what was given like a gift
of Nature handed down
is far too swiftly taken back
now Winter’s come to town.