In non revealing shades I watch the day commence
as dust now dances in the sunshine void
where yesterday I still was to believe
that you would be by nightfall, sooner, real.
The Chardonnay is sour now, and caught
in red and stingy moist that were my eyes,
those shades are changing into greys and browns,
more suitable to ordinary days.
The grave is waiting there but doesn’t care as such.
I now and then wipe nature droppings from the stone.
The grave would be okay to be there left alone,
as graves don’t mind about who’s grieving all that much.
I come here for the blackbird’s song each time I go.
He sings his graveyard tune that vibrates through the air
with thoughts and memories emerging everywhere.
It is a simple tune that all the mourners know.
In what he sings, I hear my father’s laugh, his scorn
and in the melody my mother’s unsaid words
now spoken clearly in the language of the birds
and sounds I heard from times I wasn’t born.