I faced the pale day unwillingly,
its tired white light in a snowscape
where no dog had walked, had
not laid happily atop a snowbank,
refusing to come in, face spread
in a dog's joyful smile, tolerant
of a human folly to be inside
on a mildly cold day like this.
The master in his carpentry
was as absent as his loyal hound.
These harsh absences announced
the thinning of the world;
the magic of the living presence
replaced by a meter of snow
on three graves. In these graves
we are buried, piece by a piece,
never to be whole again.
I faced the pale day unwillingly,
its tired white light not offering
even ghosts, but absences,
absence which the landscape,
silent, without movement, dead,
seemed to scream silently
in it's every part, calling forth
memories of guilt, piercing
like some frozen lance in
a grim fairy-tale no longer told.
31.01.2021
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