Oh my, on Windy Ridge: the distant burst of bells and mist
still brings a rag of laughter where the scraps of you exist.
This the pastel-crag; the cliff that carved a Chaplin-grin,
remembered ever-infant far beyond this darkened wind.
And past the winter’s dripping chin, I glance at what once
must have been and which we never noted: the scythe of sun
upon the sky; the buzzard omen-throated; the sleeve of trees
that waved goodbye; and one more death for which to die.