No trumpet sounds for life-in-death;
there is no winding-sheet or mummy-cloth.
The entrails rot and deliquesce -
the darkness is not nothing;
no-one, nothing was nor is my debtor.
All life is death
and death's mistake is life.
Being with you
(kind-of close,
not civil partner, not wife,
but buddy-voluntary)
was (when you were not morose)
as good as being solitary
plus
the food was better.
(Love is just emotion,
life for most is drab devotion.)
I settle
solitary below the rich but thin alluvium
of loneliness upon the planet.
The hungry roots above are nourished
quietly, without mammalian kerfuffle -
Quince, Pseudopanax, Oak and Medlar,
Rose-bay Willowherb and nettle,
flourish,
perish.
The badgers scrape and snuffle.
No comments:
Post a Comment