Death is best left
unsaid,
unless, by dead, you meant
my last stiff whisper, cold-
kissed by your lips of stone;
we two old friends who part …
There was an art,
they say,
they hint (vague by intent,
in muffled tones to hold
your ears), in making known
each to each what each thought …
Love is best sought
in Spring,
Not now with the sap spent;
supposing I had told
you, anyway; my own
mute love still had no breath.
Copyright: Richard Fox 1970
All rights reserved
Hallo.
I said good morning in the rain
to you last week. You smiled again
as though the thing was still there. But
the wind wept at my shoulder, smut
from smog and memory clouded round
and our slow truth, our jailed joy, frowned
through the iron rods of rain. It’s
strange to see you now, with his bits
of gold and stone, like a lost shrine
with no priest: but when you were mine,
you watched me worship; which is why
last week, I prayed good morning, dry
inside the shelter of your smile.
Hallo again. Please stay here for a while …
Copyright: Richard Fox 1970
All rights reserved
