Frost on the graveyard when I come
to your graves, and with most
of you have I walked here to the graves
of those who I never knew;
now I know more here, in the evening
light of November cemetery,
than in this blighted county alive.
Thus is the ending I fashioned
in my long defeat.
In the waning, cold light,
before your names engraved in stones,
I can, with strange calm, confront
the fact more deeply chiselled in
absence, that this is what life
has come into, that this
is the path I carved across years
for its flood-waters, and it
took you in its rushing tide.
09.11.2020
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