for jan voster

…the air soft gaunt trees like bones feet in pools of copper oak, sycamore, beech the resting place; a woodland floor—

…the sky, rivulets of blue something passes offering a noise adding substance to somewhere a railway line, purposeful a destination—the lost years—

…an embrace disconcerting you would want me to cry ‘sweet consolation’ for your ghost the landscape acquiescent gentle, the eye can hold—

…let in light, who can accept that flesh will waste? there is no fight against dying omit suffering it is our spirits that defies death