Kett’s spectres, on a 21st century November
Evening, in the quicksand wet gloaming,
Falling leaves and the remnant of days
On the forest floor, chasing around the trees,
And across the uneven roots and sliding mud,
The cold mist a thread across an invisible path
Through a maze of hedge and heath and slope.
They whisper, not unkindly but indecipherably,
A weft of words half a millennium old through
Pits and troughs of soil and bones alive with
What will not die and cannot die. The peat
Sounds hollow under this relentless rain,
Graves so deep, so unknown, even secrets
Forget where they were made.
Shapes driven by a gust of sudden cold lift
Their arms, open their indistinct eyes, glad
To see the living in their domain. They do not
Reveal themselves in the sun. It’s not just the
Wind in the trees, nor the rain on what’s left
Of the leaves. There is a presence alive in these
Hollows that doesn’t want to be forgotten.
R, 21/11/2022 18:40
AGGIE’S ART OF HAPPINESS – CHAPTER 255
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