after Frénaud
Nothing of those I have loved is forgotten.
They had sunk but their strength will return,
a fingertip touching my throat.
Under the dead weight of years, the evening light
regaining its splendour, they are scaled by a tear,
the beloveds lying undone by the spring.
All my childish lustre among the secretive
forms, letting them in between the big trees,
knocking them off their feet under
a passing cloud and a rainbow of impatience.
Off with them I go again, far below my face,
descending among the shadows that rule us,
cutting a dash here as they reveal me,
these dead, still quick if I am their memory,
their watcher or tomb – my own tomb too,
bedecked as is fitting
with a breezy grin for façade.