By Sean O’Brien
driftwood builds up on the embankment
downstream from the old house of the newly weds
the water is still here, mostly
dead trees stand mangled like scarecrows in crosshatch for miles
the chimney hacked up a lung on the Bad Nights
it is cold here, mostly
soil and rock cling together tight as if there is something to fear
the stone wall they built a metre high is washed glossy by the rain
the gravel driveway strains its reach for the clearing in the wood as if pleading for absolution
not a tyre or boot has met it for years
it is quiet here, mostly
though, the songbirds still chime when the clouds part
however dull and flat, it is still a song of sorts
they sang along in the days when their cheeks were rosy
it all seems a lifetime ago when the colour flushed from their cheeks
the clocks all tell a different story
so too do the scorch marks
the songbirds try not to look down anymore
lest they see the desecrated graves
and know their call goes unanswered
even on the Good Days
they are forgotten here, mostly
