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by Libby

The sky locked me in.
I was shut out by earth.
People spoke in gestures
Cryptic as a foreign tongue.
By stone gates I crept
Frost-drowned, frost-burned
Carbon-winged I hung
Under the still stars.
In the yew's bitter shade
I glimpsed their fluttered fans
Gowns of grey lichen, pale rose:
And the air they moved
Was a memory lost,
For they passed like deer.

I heard their voices again
Distinct on the winter air
As if death was but
A trick of the light
And love no more than laughter.