Song of a Dead Man
Dead man came softly
to knock on her door.
He said ‘Don’t forget how
you knew me before’.
Dead man sat gently
to rest in the hall.
Looked at her paintings
hung up on the wall.
He said that the best
was the canvas of crows.
She said they were rooks,
he said she should know.
The wind on the hill,
the tree by a tomb.
The moon on the moor,
the fire in her room.
She offered him whisky;
he asked her for tea.
A shiver moved through him,
he was grey like the sea.
They talked for a while
as the night slid away.
She awoke in a chair
at the cold edge of day.
The dead man was gone,
though traces remained.
Some mud and some moss,
a few tear drop stains.
The wind on the hill,
the worms in the earth,
the moon on the moor.
The fire in her hearth.
Marc Woodward is a poet and musician resident in the West Country. He has been published in anthologies from Ravenshead Press, Forward Press, OWF, and in various magazines and web sites including Ink Sweat & Tears and The Guardian web pages.
