The Days are Gods 

                                                                

 

 

 

Let the body go.

Let it lie beneath the sycamore

or, burned to ash,

sink into the soft green moss that drapes its roots.  

 

Let the earth spin as it will spin,

in and out of daylight,

batted round the seasons,

summer’s riot giving way to autumn’s reason,

winter’s blasted heart beguiled

by witcheries of spring.

 

Let the iris strut its purple finery

and the morning glories whoop and jive.

Let the carrion crow feast on plovers’ eggs,

while underfoot

the roots of the black oak burrow down

into the dark continent of the numberless dead.

 

Let us forgive the world for what it will do to us.

 

Let this be enough.