(For Daphne d. Oct 4, 2010)
this magnificent, quiet dust
all that has become
of laughter and tears
and dreams and fears
lies at last
silent seed
in fallow earth
why do we cry
when all
cattle or bird or mite
and all breathing things
are at last severed
from their naïve growing
are we so different then
from tree or seed
when all our green hopes
will lie at last in expired joy
And what shells of fools we are
to let our giddy laughter loose
among the leaves and flowers
of unbelieving youth
we are hapless fools
clenching
in our feeble fists
some eternally gloriously
pitiable dream
we all come to dust
magnificent, quiet dust
there we lay our love
and our memories
and murmur our forgivenesses
in insensible ears
there, unable to summon
living hope
we face, at last, our loss
and cry
we cry
we cry not for the knowledge
of birth or death, but for the knowing
that our first and last leavings
are profoundly final
we cry not for the knowledge
of good or of evil
but for the knowing
that all the elabourate eloquence
of our pain-laid plans
are scratched on unyielding clay
we cry not for the hope interred
but that we hope only
in resurrections
and so bend our eyes to water some wished for,
wish-born, incorruptible seed
so we cry
we cry not for the dead alone
but that there is no lack of tears
that there is no fear of any parting
more final
this magnificent, quiet dust
all that has become
of laughter and tears
and dreams and fears
lies at last
silent seed
in fallow earth
Roger Blenman