Ken's Poetry

Morning

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.