Winter roads (iii)
poem
Here's nothing
But the driving drifting snow
Wits gone wanting
I go
Watching the pale world
Caught up by patience,
Passions curled
Upon themselves:
Wake nothing
That sleeps, walk
Through silence
Safely haunted
By quiet ground beneath;
In your hands a wreath
In the still air a voice, no breath
Carried home and out of time
With ageless reason and no rhyme —
Now I go, return, now
There's nothing but the snow;
Now the world is out of tune with death.




What a last line! Bravo.