Moveable Feast

In amongst the concrete

and paving slabs,

we feel our disconnection.

There is no soil below

the pipes and cables,

connecting town to city

to capital, for capital gain.

We calculate the seasons’ change

by measurements in mercury

or clocks compared to light available;

not by the appearance

in the ground and trees

of crops and flowers and fruit

- but on the serried, soulless

shelves of supermarkets.

We do not know

the date of Candlemas:

we remember vague notions

of Roman foolishness

at the end of winter:

the time for Norse obsessions

with bears who made their exit,

stage left, long ago.

We do not acknowledge

the winter of our lives,

nor any graceful autumn.

We struggle and strive

to stay forever

in an early summer,

denying the simple truth:

to every thing,

there is a season.