The wind rattles the finger bones of trees,
blows in my ear like distant seas,
shadows latticed on the path
stretch sinews to the waiting west,
the sun in winter-morning white
brushes green wheat with icy light
and distant tree and distant hill
are mist-washed in the morning chill.

Your voice is walking in my head
the strident words you always said,
in the cathedrals of the wood
I see you waiting in cold shade
as though the frozen past
had come to take me home at last;
I cannot move, I scream inside
hearing you more since you have died.


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