JULY

July, and this is the longest silence yet.
Only a raven’s caw trails in the low sky
and falls among winter’s waiting perfumes.

What will the word be, when it comes?
Every silence means a different thing
yet none gives any sign to know it by.

Rock is worn to sand in tide’s tireless pull,
a swathe of dark is cut by stars, a late leaf
withers on the path, a hooked fish cries.

To cling to hope’s a desperate metaphor –
if someone were to tell me you were gone,
the news would, after all, be kind.

© Louise Oxley