Two Poems

Parable

There was Death
carved in stone, in the temple,
waiting, aloof, all seeing.

There was Death
in the Medicine House, incredulous
of such hopes
laughing in the dusty twilight.

There was Death
at the Traveller’s Inn, serving
the food, flames of burning oil
and the sound of bells.

There was Death
in the crowd, listening
to the blind singer
songs of seeing, songs of longing.

The Come-Back

He appeared on the balcony
after the victory
with his new wife, young, blonde.
He tall and very thin, in grey,
his head, a skull just covered
with some parchment.

He watched the crowd
unsteady on his feet and vague
sent them awkward kisses
with his bony hand,
the wife’s hand on his shoulder
guiding him.
When he spoke
his voice hollow, rasping
some over-used rhetoric from his past
in which he still believed.