WAITING FOR NOVEMBER
His headstone verses were writ in wine
To draw the eyes unto the fact of death.
Lichen lines love-and-only-love remembers.
All, all, we knew was eyes of deepest blue
This good man’s eyes writ in blood
Mortal love will always end like this. Time
Weathers the stonemason’s art to a flat palimpsest
Of hieroglyphics which resemble not the zest
Of pumping blood. Stones do not record the passing
Shadows of a glance, a look. Kisses that we all desire
Eulogise our tear-filled eyes as we stare into winter
Fires, snow-filled skies, disguise is less than futile,
Now we must gather all the force that we can muster
To face this meeting with our fates on All Souls’ Day.