It never mattered that there was once a vast grieving: <br /> <br />trees on their hillsides, in their groves, weeping – <br />a plastic gold dropping <br /> <br />through seasons and centuries to the ground – <br />until now. <br /> <br />On this fine September afternoon from which you are absent <br />I am holding, as if my hand could store it, <br />an ornament of amber <br /> <br />you once gave me. <br /> <br />Reason says this: <br />The dead cannot see the living. <br />The living will never see the dead again. <br /> <br />The clear air we need to find each other in is <br />gone forever, yet <br /> <br />this resin once <br />collected seeds, leaves and even small feathers as it fell <br />and fell <br /> <br />which now in a sunny atmosphere seem as alive as <br />they ever were <br /> <br />as though the past could be present and memory itself <br />a Baltic honey – <br /> <br />a chafing at the edges of the seen, a showing off of just how much <br />can be kept safe <br /> <br />inside a flawed translucence. <br /> <br /> <br />Eavan Boland<br /><br />Eavan Aisling Boland<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/amber-8/
