longer than most.
For how does one remember
sadness and loss?
Can these things be shortened?
I think not.
And I think of you, my brother,
in the evening,
straightening her photo on the wall,
straightening the crooked hole in your heart,
laying to rest the day.
Inscriptions carved in stone
Are grown over with age and moss
In the graveyard of time;
They said there was life here
But the moan of the wind
Is all that the silence can know;
Over there, in the shadows,
Light flickers through the stone,
Becomes the echo of a song.
Such beauty lies here
along the yellow-grey sand
of the beach.
It floats on the crystal waters
of the deep blue tide,
sparkling beneath the sun;
here, bush and dune together
dance in waltz time
to the edge of the ocean.
There are faces in the flames,
I know their flickering image
But I have lost their names;
Still, there is warmth here
In the quiet murmur of the fire,
In the joy of the choir and the song.
A song of boundless love
was drifting in the dust
and I wondered if the neighbour heard it
or if I cried alone.
Across the ocean of his heart
To the horizon that has no end
She sails on the glide and turn
Of the albatross wing, a patient
Love, bestowed and earned.
In a fine filigree of lace,
the light drizzle draped
itself about our shoulders
and bejewelled our hair
so that it glittered in the
early morning light.
It tells on his tired body,
the slashing of the overgrown
garden, the raking and piling
of bush and grass;
but still, the weary smile
at days and the garden reborn,
are reward enough
for this labour.
How deep are the stars tonight
that stop us in our tracks;
as deep as her heart,
as still as the moment
in their quiet light
that sets us apart.
Moon shadows follow us
along the beach towards home;
the fish in hand reward enough
for our patience
and the lateness of the hour.