You can take a poet into a new idea but they may say nothing,
you can seat them in front of threnodies and burials and those
sunsets that switch on and off all of a life and you can remember
every word you never said and what they might have revealed,
particularly about what a silence is for and the way earth hides
wonders and when the stranger at your door reminded you of
what you always wanted to sing in the very last seconds.
But you did not do this, left it all to fall apart, never get its act
together, even in those dreams before they began or what you might
have regarded as a PS to your life, what somebody else might find,
these fiddle faddles of thought and crashes and unsaids as the
field fills slowly with ghost soldiers getting so near to home and
expecting everything to be so certain, the door not locked, the
windows filled with night and dawn and what music can remember.
© David Grubb 2018