Where a scar of sunlight leaks
some Eros for the dead
on to the low mist gap
in a haphazard afternoon
of errands that once existed,
a scarecrow with a yellow star
and silver flowers at her hips
gives the steadfast company
of affectionate immortality
to the dull world mood.
Someone is gone, someone
is sure to go, into the fruitful
afterlife of the ochre-coloured
twentyfirst-century water
newly cleansing over snowy
cobblestones old as the city.
The sound of the sun purifies
the spirits of erased aeroplanes
as long as they shimmer.