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?
Who has seen his ghost?