A half-life of a month or three,
not long, all considered.
But I wonder, every day,
what can cure decay.
I, I’m sure, cannot.

Long days of talking birds,
short nights of not listening.
Where do we go when
we’ve burnt all our bridges?

Walking woodlands, thinking unclearly,
wake something deeper. Older.
Can you see it yet?

But we are the modern folk,
we do not stand tradition.

We cannot survive decay.