The Ghent Review Volume1, Number 1, summer 2016 | Page 25

Martin Burke

The Beauty And The Grief
A ruined house, a low row of green and brown ragged hedge growth before it; a young man
and an old man.

Old Man:
A cold moon, and a slow dance
Of clouds across it
April that feels like the chill of March
For the seasons have gone haywire
And even the stars seems wrong in the sky.
Yes, a cold moon, a moon that sends shivers
Across my heart that has seen much
And should fear nothing yet fears tonight.
Young man:
Stop your mutterings to the wind old man
Your words are empty air.
Old man:
What can an old man do but mutter to the wind
When the wind is muttering to me?
Young man:
You’re prone to windbag workings.
Your mind remembers unwholesome thoughts
And you give yourself over to them.
But rouse yourself, here is a ruin
Where we can take shelter and this hedge
Will block the wind from working its ways
Upon us.
Old man:
I know this place, I have been here before
I know its recitals and its visions
I feel the tragedy inherent in these stones