The Falls Of Memory

What west wind blew through
bringing news, the scent of
morning rising from your skin
a sweet mist and dew of you who

Lay too long upon the road which
animals cross, stride
from in the by-ways
among the woods you have not
visited for centuries or decades

As light lifts the shadows
across the lake
where I am listening for
the sound of your voice whispering

My name as I sit once more
at the table, consuming
the unfinished wine left behind:
when things unsaid did not stop on the vine

©Dean Baker

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**Dark Earth – ‘Rabelais and Hieronymus Bosch look out of dark chinks in these poems…’

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©Dean Baker

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