Beginnings

by Grahaeme Barrasford Young

Eight swallows wavering on wires
quaver the Fifth against a clear sky.

All that’s left, such accident?

- only so many muses in one life;
wine too soon stops what it begins;
poverty is only available to the poor;
divine ecstasy no longer fuses,
smoke-free hell has lost its threat.
A bit of smoulder, no flair –

Bring on decline – except

eight swallows imitating art
two-finger decline far into touch,
six-hit it out of stadiums;
dropped by startled passers-by,
it breaks.