The voiceless dead come to greet us
in softened shoes that fold like kidskin,
faces sculpted by time’s microbic caresses
to a blind and mirthless grin.
‘Ah’ they don’t say; ‘Oh’ they don’t cry,
deaf and blind to hear or see those things
like the summer swallow wings
that flock and flutter through a cloudless sky.
For these the crafted poem holds no sense
and the promises of lovers of no consequence.
Gone the desire for acquisition,
gone the option to forgive:
so live for this moment you who can.
Illustration Nick Victor