|
The past experience is remembered
in an emotion, contextually
defined in a rising spate of gravestones.
I was adrift in the concentration
of detail -- that epitaph on marble,
those pairs of names; fresh flowers plunging from
anonymity, anonymity
to the foot of a grave, like flying blood.
Stones that bristled with silence, no ambience
of presence, only echoes in the milk
of marble; the wary emptiness that
brought life to the aspect of a barrow.
Now I realise the dead are elsewhere,
the cemetery deserted by them too. |
