Poet, Heal Thyself

The mourners come
like bedraggled crows
to swarm the casket.
I find I have cried for her
too many times;
my tears are dry,
they fall like confetti
on her coffin,
postage-stamped
to the afterlife.
In the graveyard
skeletons dance in the roots
of the despondent oaks -
their smiles aglitter.
We used to come drinking here;
back when I proclaimed myself
a poet and her my muse.
Now look at us.
The grave is open
like my many wounds,
crying out for her.
I know I will go home,
sit in the shed at the bottom
of the garden,
and stroke a snake of rope,
finger the jaws of hedge-clippers,
tease the teeth of saws.
But sooner or later
I will come across
an old photograph,
rush to my desk
and write the words;
“She is . . .”