Listen. There's no point pretending
I haven't been trying to tell you
all along, not when you keep lecturing me
from the far edge of every barrel and crevice
in a desertful of ash.
If this is the end, well, here we end.
Words never counted for much
when we picked our sand-tipped way
through a gulch of sorry stones.
You can shout at me, if you like;
you might even hear your echo shouting back.
As we end in a landscape cruel and deep
we may as well hurl voices, bombarded in return
by ghosts spewing up
from the blood-flicked gash of the world.
I wore my detective coat, and a hat
pulled low across my eyes -- wouldn't that make
him curious? I spoke in code of that
forest, this garden, a gate and a lake --
landscapes he constructed long before I skulked
down a corkscrew path riddled with low sighs.
I implied my source, I hinted my name,
waiting for him to weep and recognise.
Mysteries appear, whether we pray they do
or flinch in fear when they tap us from behind.
We imagine them into being through
boredom, or yearning to be seen in kind.
I tossed away the hat, and stained the coat.
He, humming well-worn tunes, added a moat.