<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.