Funeral

              <For Lee> 

 

A north wind blows red and purple at the end of autumn.

 

Wine-lights of dusk

Course in drugged vein of leaves.

 

Beyond August,

You said “half our lives are over”,

And it was good…

 

Now, garnet processions of hills

Crowd around a silvered silk of morning,

And burnt-out pyres of stars smolder recitatives

of your ash and light.

 

Water does not carve a history through old rock.

Water and rock are mostly reflections of each other’s stillness.

 

Seasons only spin in the pale moment,

Where all are neither here, nor not-here —

Without future or past – runes of old stars burning out forever.

 

At your funeral,

In the flickered cold of the gathered afternoon,

I knew you were no more (nor no less) present

Than any of the rest of us.