he is now gone
like the swan
upon which
his memory
of summers past
hung,
all is now black water
under fenced off bridges
where neither the living
nor the dead
may walk,
unclear reminiscences
of broken white feathers
floating unfulfilled wishes
on ornate marble ponds
into which
pennies were cast
I try to picture her face
as bright as a Grieg morning
like a tonal poem
rising from the silent dalliance
with the endless night,
and I think to myself…
what sadness
they must have endured
back in the days
before photographs.
these altars to Mars
built on purest sacrifice
belie their tranquil standing
for it is not stone
nor the mason’s
crafted hand
that formed this artifice
but blood, and cries
of anguished death.
we painted poppies at the beach
on shells and flat stones
and the tide washed them all away
more quickly than our tears
I dare not sing
my songs today
or write of platitudes
so often said
for one like me
to engage poetry
does nought but a diservice
to the dead.
the blighters rock 