The sting of the wind
On this cold december day
Reminds me of my
Ancestors who rode
This same wind
As they trudged to work
On early shift.

This connection, now, is
Deep, sunk in the blood,
In all that I mean
When I say these words
In tones that rhyme.

Words that would’ve
Carried meaning still
In those cold, hungry days
When this same old
Northern sky
Still pleased the eye of
Those infected with
The old disease, of love.

And, in this frail copse of tender trees
Glimmering with dappled sunlight,
Sunlight casts strange shadows over me
Over scattered poplar trees,
over hawthorn bushes
over delicate blades of grass.

Nothing lasts.
But in this place and time
A mottled moment’s respite
Is offered me
As I watch these birds
Swing high into this grey ghost-ridden
Air.

 

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