Thursday, January 21, 2016
Do the bones haunt you?
The starved sheep abandoned
in the crumbling mortar walls
left by fleeing predecessors.
November kills everything.
Is there beauty in this death?
Cobalt skies setting foliage afire
fleecy wisps of cloud
arctic birds escaping
southward to your Yankee ancestry
chasing Acadian ghosts.
I wish I could write poetry. You do it so well. But I'd have to say that I'm not so much haunted by ghastly bones these days so much as other things.
If memory serves, you've given some thought on the link between death and beauty. Is this something you're exploring more in other writings?
And then the Acadian Ghosts, southward... Puts me in mind of Louisiana, though they don't take well to the term yankee down there. I feel your meaning, though. A distinctly Canadian poem, to be certain.