There’s a magical muddle
that clings to the page
like mist to a meadow.
No help in the hurting,
no truth in the light,
just haze on the harvest.
I’ve cancelled my comeback
and chosen instead
to be cloistered in clover.
In the blare of the body
the spirit lies mute
like a book in a bottle.
I’ll hunker in hollows
where wisdom is vague
and history can’t happen.
There’s a heaven of honey
in hives of friends’ hearts.
They’ll humour my headstone.
