Back
(i.m. of my grandfather)
I am impatient of ghosts.
You are flung back real,
Unravel with the lake's laughter,
The screech of grass,
The howl of the moon.
Beloved clown, you are out there still,
With the day and night's shenanigans.
Your humour, wit, your stand-
Still play their game.
This thin sun fills with mellow yearning,
Brings you, close as skin.
No time abducts.
No rowdy thief falls in.
This cenotaph is my memorial stone,
The pyramid in which I've buried you, old king,
Chronicling your light and shade
On the scroll of my mind.
The wind moans, pregnant heavy.
Its cup is filled. It knows your flavour,
Snaps at the silver bark of birch,
As if the light that plays its pattern
Holds your shadow.
© Wendy Bardsley 2014