the houses are trickling down the hillside leaving behind
rvening’s silver slobber

with an infinite rope
sadness goes on hauling up the empty bucket

suddenly the wind is milk froth foaming over the stones

the potter comes out on his sheer clay hill
to search for the past future of forms

the same flame that fired the clay later brings it in
with the ash of bones

sleepy hemp fields covered Transylvania
the light rustling among their fibrous leaves
those were the first days of hell
people disappeared from their homes
ploughs rusted
incomplete furrows mounting skywards
te had sown its seed in them
in autumn people came into villages clad in leather
pistols in their belts
they were called red wolves - they took eggs from beneath laying hens
at windows women bewailed God's silence
life breathed short
hildren had snot up to their waists
sometimes my grandfather lifted up his eyes
cursing Stalin
people thought he was crazy
they l
eft a space round him in the pub
when he went to drink his gin
today is the day of the dead
I would like to write him a poem
but tha
t time can't be put into verse
the poem is too short a dressing to wrap the heart