"His work is passionate; it has energy, and rings true. Its language casts the spell that poetry should, with not one false note."
The rain from the hills is holding.
Squeezed into the crowded house
I can look forward to the whiskey
and sweet exhaustion
following the farewell of prayers
as I float above the family’s low voices.
The row of their bowed heads
are dark flowers among the white lilies
surrounding the polished pool of the coffin;
the backs of their hair,
brushed coils and partings,
reflected in the oval wall mirror.
And when I turn to look across the lounge
there’s another mirror on the opposite wall,
each of the pair creating in the other,
with the wallpaper and flowers and shadow,
an endless corridor of reflections
beyond the party walls,
deep through each house of the terrace.
There are bright crops of white lilies
as if on the banks of a river.