Last night’s rain,
The fence-creeping wet-poor fox,
The savage dreams of screaming men
Are all behind me now.
But their faces remain:
Dangled before me when I close my eyes;
I do not recognise a single one.
Am I supposed to?
Were they trying to pass on
A terrible secret?
Or had they just uncovered
The unholy lie?
I have no idea …
Their words, framed by desperate lips
Were lost to me, to everyone,
Their voices stolen.
Wise men say I cannot
Dream in colour.
If it is so, then black and white are
Cruelly vivid and dreadfully revealing.
Morning-of-April skies press the
New blue pages
– Spring’s first chapter –
Against my unglazed windows.