St Lucy’s Day

by Elaine Feinstein

for JH

We are half way through the dark time.
             They know it in their roots, the winter trees:
What am I working at, an old poet,
             sitting over the keys?

Today, I caught a glimpse of my face
             in a photograph and made out
pathos in the lines of my mouth –
             a wish to please, is it? I don’t like that.

The name of the man who invented the wheel
             has been forgotten,
along with his language, his Gods, his stories.

Where are his bones?
                        his tombstone?
                                    Who has seen his ghost?