a red kite cries over Rose Hill cemetery

rose hill cemetery
The snow lies longer
in the cemetery,
slush-hushing and slippery under
my boots, compelling me
to take penguin steps, sadly
comic middle-aged man
waddling unsteady, slightly sweaty
within a formless winter
coat. I don’t want to fall
here on this incline
of etched dates and
their named victims so I
stop, cork-screwing my feet
into snow’s crusty softness, turning
to look down at tidy streets
of self-
contained hiding holes
and processional vehicles
in rows. Beyond rest well-
weathered hills drawing in
my hazy gaze to their clear distance
until a red kite cries out just once
and soars with sharp sight
seeking life-
blood to raise from:
beneath the snow,
the moss-dripped stones,
the frost-claimed garlands
and every day evergreens;
calling her mind’s eye to Imagine
and breathing a keen spring wind.

2 thoughts on “a red kite cries over Rose Hill cemetery

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