FOUR SEASONS
The cemetery wakes up in a haze of tender green.
Blackbirds practise aubades in the trees.
Above the graves a sparrow hawk hovers.
The fieldmouse dies a thousand deaths
and I gouge your name in an oak tree’s bark.
A butterflies swirls ahead of me.
Fed by death the leaves rustle.
A shadow hoes silence to and fro,
weeding the restlessness in my head.
Here I would like to bury time for good.
Squalls of rain slash her name
carved in stone. Gold leaf falls round the memory,
forming a blanket for winter sleep.
An air ambulance hangs already above the motorway.
In the distance I hear clocks striking.
Only the wind moves among
the bare branches. The rotting covering of leaves
muffles my steps away from the silence.
The covering decays to nerves. Earth to earth.
Dust returns to dust.
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