his fingers part the window's lace.
night snowflakes, frozen stars suspend
a receding plain on watery horizons,
where deities beyond reach beckon,
where eternity is kept by its shadow.

a tree bends cracked twigs in shimmering
lamplight, guardian of the dead & living.

she lies white & weeping on the bed.
he touches the ice splintered glass
& the receding plain returns from
the dead to thrust into his heart
the pain & confusion of the living .

he hears her whisper his name, who
died so long ago for love of her, so
young, who could not bear to live on
for lack of sight of her from his window,
after she'd gone. it was love, not as he,

who knows only sudden turmoil rend,
as she weeps for the living & the dead.

* after James Joyce. The Dead.

copyright robin ouzman hislop 2004
all rights reserved