Mourning Poem 3

The graves lie out in the wet The living are home and dry March...and the weather's dreich Snow hills and a weeping sky Buds pull their coats about them Shivering in mist and rain The hook-beaked curlew's calling Like a spirit wracked with pain. You have slipped from touch to memory Under the sodden dew Like the breeze that parts the moor-grass Parts it and passes through And I would give every treasure To join you there in the rain And rock you as in your childhood In your ghostly counterpane