The wind cuts through this January night
Slicing like a razor through the skin of my face
Signs on the road hidden by an iron fog
The cry of the wind is all in vain.
Love crossed this black hole in time.
In the old be-jewelled, spider-webbed
Way kisses when young are tender and long,
Not in this frost-filled graveyard,
Where the dead remain unusually silent;
Yew tree shadows the moon.
All around the scattered remains
Eviscerated by all that time can do to human blood,
Hearts, lips, eyes and brains
In earth-infected graves
No pretended disguise.
To toast her with her living eyes.
Languidly loved on a lullaby-day
Sharing an ancient consciousness of what it is
To be a man, to be a woman.
Trapped by mortality in the this empty space.
As I stand alone in this freezing unghosted place
My insides squirm like snakes
A mere palimpsest of names and dates:
Unsoaked in perfume,
Unattended by lips like raspberries;
Tears do not leave her frost-whitened eyes.