I would undergo self-splitting pain
to bring you
back to life,
my brother.
My parched soul
craves after you
as captives
suffocating in caves
lick dew from rock.
What was it
greater than yourself
that burst in your breast …
that you could not contain ?
You had always kept all chagrin
bottled up within you,
meek as a lamb.
Because I was a lion
to your lamb
I cherished you as a son
rather than brother.
Now you have left me alone
with memories
that only you and I remember.
No more will we recollect
father, sun-tanned returning
in the April hunting season,
reeking of gunpowder and turtle dove.
Nor at noon
shall we recollect at table
the overpowering smell of sea urchins …
nor recollect the melon
oozing blood,
about which we bickered
for half a slice.
A bachelor,
you eschewed the sheets of love,
but was grasped by an embracing
and entrapping
sweat drenched shroud.
Grief, mother,
befuddled my manhood
and further enfeebled
your mind
at the height of age.
Why, death, did you call so early?
Why, death, do you rend asunder
and demolish
prematurely?
With the flute-like trills of the skylarks
so dear to you,
let me hear your voice,
Charles.
Speak to me Charles
when dew settles on the meadow
where bird traps lie.
Speak to me
from wherever you may be …
sitting on the stone seat
heaving the ropes of the nets
towards your chest
to gather
a cluster of stars
from the heavens.
There are times when still
I can hear your faint
but excited cry …
“linnets … linnets …”