Poem: Memoriam

Memoriam 

The thread snaps, what was red
darkens, the carried man
falls into the low fog,
custard thick: it swallow him,
takes him.  The thread
was stretched tight,
sounded with each pluck,
but it has snapped,
can no longer sing
except in echoes,
but the fog has come already,
cannot be driven off again
without ferrying away
all but the memory
of the one who fell,
who has been consumed,
has turned to white whisps,
has become one with what is passed.
bu

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