Carole Coates
A Quaker Grave
Still I listen
feel my slow way
to the first silence
back from this
dark last quiet
Sunlight through glass
polish on oak
no word to say
sometimes a man would speak
and we forgave him
bluebells in clear glass
on the oak table
had more sense in them
words flowers hours fall
into clear cisterns and great vats of air
that glow with silence
Bluebells bone and glass
are where I am
silence is focussed
like a burning glass
Page(s) 7
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