Poetry

Spring 2009

 

 

John Grey

Undercurrent

That low whine
is the cry of the forest.
Life feeds on the dying
and the wind, the trees,
they feel for that.
But regret doesn't stop the feasting.
Nor does acceptance
tamp the sound.
And those sobs you hear…
that's the sorrow that's never far
from all this happiness.
It's a child suddenly awoken.
It's a stabbing pain to the heart.
The warmth is but a species of the fear.
After kisses, mouths complete the journey,
instruct their tongues
to speak ill of the dead.

 

 

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