The wind rattled dry leaves in warning
then, steeling itself with iciness,
began sucking memories from the grave.
Dust devils grew and danced their torment
adorning themselves with dry pieces of things,
becoming prancing phantoms
that frightened even wind
so that it bit at them,
sinking its teeth in
like a cat mother carrying an unloved kitten
to water for drowning.
No one live was there to see
and so was spared the bone deep shock
of air borne questions of the dead,
the still shivering dead,
dancing to the whistling of the banshee wind
on headstones and foot worn paths
and the winter burnt brown of grass,
whispering in eternity’s tedium
the unrest of what they’d neglected to do,
and will forever never rectify.
96®Copyright 1963 Jack Scott. All rights reserved.