Up on the hill
a blackbird pecks at parchment leaves
around the sill of an unknown grave
and I remember how you fed raisins
to your private blackbird, which
came to your door and knocked,
unlocking your smile
Further away two jays
play, skipping from tombstone to tombstone
like angels
and I am alone
in their blue world
tiptoeing nearer and nearer
They see me coming, and
I see them going:
they do not ask for raisins, and
I do not smile: I hear no knocking
at the door
Not yet