FUNERAL DAY

Where does life lead but a hole in the ground,
Where a sand-silt mound or a concrete tomb
Give just the right amount of room, to sqeeze
A wooden box inside, where lay a bride,
A bridegroom, or a child, someone's mother,
Uncle Clive, a colleague or a friend who
Died, now dried and packed with lillies and silk,
Dropped into the earth to rot and decay
Leaving only the memory of a voice,
And the sadness of a funeral day.

EVENING VISITOR

Stopping the light from pouring through my door,
He was a silouette against the sun,
Like De Vinci man holding wide the jamb,
And it took me a while to realize
The form, the personna of Vasilis,
Ill? Drunk? Whichever it was his hold good,
Mumbling incoherently to the wood,
But quiet, gentle, nothing offensive,
Nothing good, and nothing I understood,
At first I thought him lost, but I was wrong,
He knew the reason, it was in his head,
The gathering of limbs was incomplete,
As his foot crossed the thresh to venture forth,
Offer of hand would have been impolite,
So I pulled a chair into his path, and
He sat a good hour trying to tell me
His wife had left him, she had gone before,
I think mine was the only open door.