On liminality (poem)

 vernal mugginess is abroad.
the pollens are inflicting their suffering on the red-eyed army
days are sunnier, or stormier, sometimes both;
nights are still black and cold.

the lavender encroaches yet further on the doorway,
the eucalypts are full of sharp, spiky scents.
the interloping roses shove blooms of enormous beauty
out of every reaching stem.

the world floats, suspended, in a time-between-extremes
that is, nonetheless, flagrant in its own right
season for growing things, and season for hope
and for pain and for change and for wrenching

 fitted to it, I hang, weightless, or leaden,
as the day determines (or, rather, the night before)
fighting a battle I don't properly understand

with weapons I am not well suited yet to use

like a sping wraith, in the limen,
hovering between sun and shade
seeking colour, and finding it, sometimes,
but other days, 
finding only tears in a monochrome sky.

- Kathy, 18/10/14