MAGPIE TALES 38
This is a second draft of a poem posted a couple of years ago.
POEM WITHOUT WORDS
Sometimes a poem just happens
in plain air. Mute, like mimes,
the actors shimmer briefly and
are gone, leaving their outlines
etched in light, wordless but entire.
Consider this: the cemetery fence,
the graves beyond; the balding man,
late middle-aged, who walks towards
the fence; fresh blooms against
a tombstone and dead flowers lobbed
towards the dump, the arc they made;
the boy with Downs who stumbled,
weeping, close behind. The man,
the flowers and the boy. The air
that framed them and the light
that picked them out.