by Chris Reed
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| Image source: In the Hills |
You wanted a requiem
a dies irae,
a solemn Gregorian chant,
or maybe just a photo album
of those who’ve left,
a chorus of auld lang syne,
some cup of kindness,
or the rage
of trumpets blaring
through the sepulchres,
a judgement.
I hear the drip
of too late rain
in burned forests,
a tremulous rhythm.
No more news please,
no rising harmonic summary.
The dead don’t want repose,
they wanted to live.
Year of misery,
death and deceit,
it’s almost time to go.
You’re already shrugging
into your jacket,
No need to turn around
and show me your expression.
You don’t have to say
goodbye.
Chris Reed is a writer who has found meaning and solace and connection in the reading and writing of poetry during this pandemic.
