What silences can take their shape
through this dull mist of morning rain?
The slow black figures easing past
on through the frosted grass to stand
in stillness, verging on a pit
that leads forever back to now.
The only goods you take with you
on such a journey: threadbare words
and meagre handfuls of dry dust.
No longboat burning out at sea
for challenging the sunset skies.
No use-worn tools or weapons placed.
No swathing or golden sarcophagus.
Just cold brass handles and smooth wood
you never once did get to touch.
