Empty Hands

What silences can take their shape
through this dull mist of morning rain?

The slow black figures easing past
on through the frosted grass to stand
in stillness, verging on a pit
that leads forever back to now.

The only goods you take with you
on such a journey: threadbare words
and meagre handfuls of dry dust.

No longboat burning out at sea
for challenging the sunset skies.
No use-worn tools or weapons placed.
No swathing or golden sarcophagus.
Just cold brass handles and smooth wood
you never once did get to touch.