Olivia Macassey
official website
September
The sky is grey, the grey grave still
a headland reflected black on the water;
all this wilderness is alive with bees.
I wait for your return.
How the road winds here, the bracken opening,
everywhere the bees hum onward
toward black ripples, distant mist down in
cloud
layertorn outlines against the grey
and your grave is grey and still cold
and still:
when will you return when will you return.