I know the tiresome emptiness off loss
Whispered prayers wind around me
tight as a linen sheet
I would rather hear the gale raging through the oak
than hear such words
I farm a gap in the clouds
My own father would make fierce account
of how my dreams aged him before his time
though the rocks whisper he was ruined
by long harsh years behind the plough
My mother dreamed winds from temperate lands
might blow across his brow
but rain and stone and sickly beasts filled his mind
Drab were the mourners in Horeb
who saw him fade into the earth
The only light was in the eyes
of those he will curse no more