In this final winter,

Home to a vacant house

In mourning style,

With ice on the sale sign.

Unlit, but heated

By neighbourly care.

Still it is voiceless.

 

A card for Christmas,

Fallen on the floor,

Postmark from Pennsville:

A cousin, not too close,

Who has yet to hear

The march of long men

Sounding through the night.

 

Our neighbours we know.

And the fields are familiar.

But I name my navigators

Among the departed.

The distance taken

-Measureless in miles-

Is nothing against the dust.