The interminable circle

The seasons are flung onto the world, a roulette wheel.

They tumble, they crash, they fall, and they burn.

 

The wheel is spun

by hands covered in their own blood;

greasy ink, from the bones of twenty pound notes.

 

The sun sits in the filthy sky

like a coin stuffed in the pocket of a gambler's trousers.

 

The seasons are flung onto the world, a roulette wheel.

 

Chris Nichols