Passing God's acre; graves and flowers and inscriptions
by Daniel Bourke
"Loving fathers" and "selfless martyrs", a mile of scruples
Wrinkled as sand, she's making the gestures we learned as children
Shapes with her hand, traced through the air
Sharing a glance, she eyes me dumbly!
Does she envy my youth? I envy it too
She leaves in a hurry, as if to attend forgotten things
As if time had just now become short
Idling silvery skies, this island becomes me!
My death might be closer than thirty