The Wake's End

By the wake's end, with the end-song's drift,

With the dry smoke worn, and the

Palm fronds withered in the burnt rafters,

We sat in silence, and waited in though

We had not slept, being baffled by sleep,

By that part of us that would disappear

In some red darkness, not to awaken once more

In the vouchsafed mystery of returning,

Led down into our own vicious heaven,

Closed by a cold ferment. And quietly,

As clean air above the fire, the night washed in

A daybreak ferry of clouds, with sails composed

And bringing home the morning.

And soon, mismatched lovers, sun and moon,

Moved away in a train of disconnected gestures,

Uncoupled, with one left shining among the nettles,

Spreading coral between the long shadows,

Where small cats rubbed the tips of sunrise dew,

Stalking insects, with stars lessened above them,

And the whole sky opening like a peeled orange,

Reeling in Kingfishers from indistinct corners,

And us among them gaping at our muddied feet,

As if a stranger, ashamed of staying too long,

Had shared an intimate secret and withdrew,

Talking with him that which we had hidden

From each other, leaving us nameless

And naked and without a comforting fear.

Till we stood beneath the building cloud

With swift tangibles, the firm centers of life,

All smashed like stale orchids underfoot,

And these, our drums and shrivelled hearts,

Discharged themselves in a single disbelief

Of light, slanting on the makeshift,

Momentary, movement of their own beat,

And moved through the underbrush with relief,

Where bullfrogs sang up from the leaf partings,

With each interlude underlined with the voice

Of rain, reflecting light without being light,

Pattering leaves without becoming sound,

Running down to applaud our feet

As we walked out, making signals in the air

For the passing of a ghost.