Olivia Macassey

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The wind will stir the tall grasses
which in summer are golden and brittle.
The leaves will grow, curl and fall
on the dark wood of spiny plum trees,
and sometimes the sky will be too blue
for me, though it was not so for you.

Winter frosts will fall ice over water
the rain will climb the creek
over its own muddy banks, slippery for eels.
The skeleton leaves of the summertree
will haunt currents in the deep pool,
and the rock where once you sat grow moss.

The trees will lichen with age and die,
or fall to storms funnelled through hills;
And I will come here, though the years are gone
and the wind dries cold tears on my face.
Perhaps when I have lost you for as long
as I have loved you, this grief, too, will rest.

Olivia Macassey, August 1994

Suitable poem about death ... funeral poem about death ... death poem for bereavement ... Yvette Audain