Criticism of the Dead

The wind has no voice

and yet we listen,

perhaps imagining the ramblings

of a mad man;

the only one to take an outside

table and tea, biro-sketching

the trees and

the letting go of leaves.

 

Autumn is in a canter,

head held high — it being

the greatest alchemist —

zig zagging the 7th & 8th Districts,

brushing both the dead and

the dying with a whisper:

 

            Winter may well be your judge

            but do not leave quietly.

 

Through windows we time

the moon rising, from nothing

to a quarter crescent,

from pitch to pallor;

a bite taken from the Host:

a criticism of the dead to forfeit,

for what is memory

if not a ghost?

- for Irene Szankowsky