Anam Cara

Outside Memory

Concealed within daylight,

the dead emerge to work

the fields of night.

Their fingers slip

through the gauze of sleep,

sift the loam of dream,

hour after hour

for pictures

of their lost faces.

Their cold tongues

stop the breath of trees,

wet the sides of rock,

eager to root out

relics of voice.

The beat of their feet

drums road and path

with every sound

and rhythm of walk,

begs the ground

to recall their footsteps.

Their white eyes,

moons in miniature,

beseech well and river

to stop awhile

and be their mirror.