hearing voices (on the third night)

(an All Hallows Study)

My earth is filled
with fines of dust
the casket handles
gleam to rust…

sit and miss me
withering,
sit and count
old stones;

I’m weatherworn
under rainbows
straining backlight
peeling bones…

a passing glance
withering
sit and count
dropped cones;

This was a grave
there is a grave
where lichen hides
my once-a-name…

have you become
withering?
sit and count
steps home;

O, missing child
how young the time
that never came,
keepsake finds…

hearing voices
withering
sit and count
soft tones.

© Emma Calder