The heavens above are frozen in cloud,
Between east and west like a winter’s pond,
The day, under siege, dons a gathered shroud,
That drifts on the song of a vagabond.
The graveyard angels weep their solid tears
For those lost names known only to the dead,
Abandoned now like all their hopes and fears
To nature’s sampler sewn in silver thread.
This dyer’s hand labours with icy cloth
And weaves parodies and burlesque pieces,
Like the ghostly flight of a pale silk moth
Its woven dreams of faith never ceases,
And frosted fingers carve a doomsday book,
To the black psalms sung by a doomsday rook.
Copyright ©RMC Jan 2018