An Old Man Gazing into the Past

Slowly, very slowly they are woven,
beauty’s braid into the braid of age.
Hooves of straw go clattering,
paws with claws still sheathed go scratching
day after night against your door.

They cast the veil of oblivion,
memory over the memory before — its brother.
Slowly, very slowly the fire smoulders down,
no ash cracks open to give birth to embers.
The grey hair beside you does not sleep.

Every thing has at least two faces.
Every moment is in two places at the least.
Two tears, like things no longer needed,
fall above the candles that have died.
The silence is woven into the song.

2009