A plentiful night. The gentle whispering of the jackdaws in the eves,
A lone tree, standing trial for winters' sins.
The cool, strong beating of the clock,
Mounted on one of four fallen walls.
To observe, to query, but never quite to understand:
How it is not who wears your mask,
Far more where, and what,
The colors that embellish the crude making of sordid love.
And to that,
A promise can be vowed,
Set out-
For I, my sweet,
Am weary, old with the harsh words of Him.
We traced over maps, the stateliness blurring with our virtues.
And still we wander:
Through ghost forests, moors of bleakness. Black was so handsome,
So honest when he lay me down.
But now,
I watch him go,
The jackdawns were all quiet as sun swept the tree
Into shadow. The seasons had disapeered
And time had turned
To treacle.
And that is it,
For every tear cried, melting before lakes can be filled,
But never forgetting the misfortune
Of him who speaks not.
