Lament
At first the thousand voices of the birth –
the breath delayed, the meagre cry, the night
of endless speech. And then the news. The earth,
becalmed, remained bereft of time: from light
to light, no order bore the day;
but for rain receiving cured grass,
slapping the window on its way,
years, or decades, or centuries might have passed.
There were no words when seeing your face,
pulled back so through your lips thin teeth were hung –
now that’s how I’ll remember you, in place
of ordinary time: your eyes so distant among
the stars, but flashing, still flashing until
your final murmur. How swift it seemed,
how swift it was, from quick to still,
the sun setting itself between
the weeds and sill as, pushing, your breathing howled
and we leaned and bowed towards you, a tableau
rehearsed, it felt, and performed somehow,
until you left. I feel that death is no
defeat, but neither is there victory,
you left a legacy in ending speech
of wonder at new life’s simplicity,
formless and silent, beyond the word’s reach.
