for Hilary and Sebastian
We sat under a fruit tree
talking of Keats and Shelley.
The sun was being gathered into
the blackness that resides west
of the Heath. Footsteps advanced
out of the flaming stone.
You said something about birds,
about those slivers of light
they carry in their beaks, about
the poet’s responsibility to life.
From the dark wind the dead
were filing up, obstinately
refusing to name themselves.
Their ranks formed a silence
on the fringe of conversation.
Oh, my friends, let us drink
the night away! Let’s salute
the lost in their immaculate towers.
Even now, as we speak, the
fragrance of orchards comes
on the edge of that first
killing frost.
From “Opening the Stone Heart”
