The Beech Grove

Last steps make no sound;
They superimpose on moist unstirred grass,
On a cold bright lane, shadow strewn.
Flanked by beech, destiny’s guard of honor,
Branches crowd in intangible, tangled glory.
Feet fall within a psychic landscape,
Bereft of earthly impact
Above wrenched-away Earth.


Dappled light dazzles
Those left to wait for unheralded end,
Smearing the screen of one born of silence.
A sight of earth displaced from sense;
Cold clarity. Gone absolutely.
The steps of the unbelonging
Walk an empty country lane-
An after dinner stroll that ends
In Another Place.