In the post Fragments I selected lines at random from old notebooks, to spark some poetry writing. This post is the second use of the same lines to produce another poem. The original can be found here.
There seems to be a depth of melancholy in both pieces, maybe from the words as written at the time, maybe reflecting my mood now. Or is it just the dark of this English summer, I sit by the window watching the clouds rise to meet the wind and the rain is starting to fall. Down on the beach holiday-makers are fighting with a strong westerly wind and eating fish and chips on the prom is a challenge.
I’m off tomorrow for a walk on the Mendips, it is always a pleasure to walk from your own front door, and starting on the beach to follow the hills inland is going to be a way of blowing the cobwebs out before heading back to work on Monday, I don’t have the Bank Holiday since I need to prepare for workmen on Tuesday.
Here then is the second of the pieces from the fragments listed in the previous post.
Letter to The Dead.
Letters to the dead among the flowers on the side of the hill.
A reminder of pale crocuses that rested in my hand
at the end of the moment. Shh, wait for the silence.
Echoes of footsteps and laughter, all that remained
was a silent stare, a moon halo and high white cloud.
I heard the wind in the trees last night,
tonight it stays in the mountains,
afraid of the dry bones of words long gone.
If you write one thing that in a moment
touches someone, it is everything.
This river is dark, the water is patient.