Shadow Rung Out Of Bloom Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

Oh, how I wish death weren't prolonged.
Where are you going, my heart of wonder?
Chasing gentian folk, lightning-tongued
Now that the rising pain starts to thunder

So still the pause in the flicker of death's eyes.
So quick-fan-flamed, the fire kilns bake up our skies.
Youth in her wax burns out at both ends of life.
'That these daughters of mischance give up being wives.'

Beauty was her enigma, once cherished to the last.
How she's ageing older now haunts a bitter flask!
How cold this elongated sun's eclipse by the moon.
Love - isn't death just a shadow, wrung out of bloom?