Sunt Lacrimae Rerum


for Roger and…

He entered these doors a deep sea diver.

This day, with the helmet of his bell suit

fogged with tears, he told of deciphering,

of streams of struggle, the letting of blood,

the patience of grief, know-not-I-what-else.

That time is fallen? Floored is memory?

Ignorance is mercy? At this threshold

the pressure of love is in its semblance

to the unspoken. Tremulous again,

the risk of breathing an air too viscous

curdles his words, their favours sad sodden.

Walking through the graveyard 

with everyone and poetry 

thought comes

Automatic

Intimate

Impelling 

Then a bee…

Unmarked by paths

The cluster Of grasses

Some railing voice

Another’s Message

To climb Home

You reach the wall

Stop

And speak

Affeared 

Too late has

Meaning now

Caw

Hearing the trickling, stuttering, crickle-crackle magpie

I saw you

Arranging a twig by your feet

Before leaving

Flapping to a further tree.

Where from the farthest reach of your invisible eye

your brother or sister or lover or mother

Gently clapped through the branches to a present perch

Had I dreamed I was up there?

The neighbouring weave of branches,

All ready in your eye

Your relation joined.



Mourning Practice

I thought (no longer fond of thought)

to visualise my mother and father.

Finding myself surprised

there they were on the other side 

of the kitchen table. 

I haven’t spoken about it much yet.

Certainly not to them.

I looked a little closer to see 

how they were doing.

I was afraid.

I drink my coffee.

I’ll go shopping.

Not a whim, it was pre-arranged.