Song of the Dead
Wind moving bare
maple shadow
sunlight prismed through crystal in window
throws spider plant's tangled web of shade
across wood floor kitchen
slant of sun
I remember a day at this time of year
approaching the longest dark of solstice
when I watched the late rising sun come
up
over the shoulder of the strange totem
statue
that stood in the yard of the farm by
the river
gazing mysteriously toward the horizon
standing sentinel
as if waiting for someone
to return from far away
I remember the whistle of the wind
as it blew the first swirling skiffs of
snow
and pulled the last stubborn leaves from
the trees
I remember the December angle of the sun
and the few birds
that remained
shivering in the windbreak
praising the
slight bit of warmth it gave
and now
certain days
when the light's at the right slant
and I smell the musty scent of dead leaves
I'm reminded of that haunted place
the magical fog of dawn in the valley
the huge snake of fog all along the river
when we watched the red sun cut through
the mist
in a flaming purple crimson sunrise
after jamming
drumming dancing all night
singing to the haloed moon
sun over the shoulder of the strange sentinel
wooden totem
and his strange companions
who stood at
each corner of the yard
casting long, distorted shadows
across the sparkling
frost white grass
Totems carved by a genius sculptor shaman
possessed by voices that drove him mad
who shot himself in the head to silence
them
leaving
his spirit behind in stone and wood
I remember the intensely charged feel
of the place
the powerful mystery of the statues
the portentous crowing of the rooster
the eerie chanting
of crows in the poplars
and I remember hearing
in the low of
the wind
the ghost of another departed friend
Drifter - poor murdered poet singer
singing in the pines
a
song of the dead
Now the bare winter
trees in this far away garden
cling with gnarled fingers
to a thin piece of sky
like my mind tries
to grasp a clear sense of the past
from behind dark clouds of memory
© 2006 Gary Lee