The Ghent Review Volume1, Number 1, summer 2016 | Page 25

Martin Burke The Beauty And The Grief A ruined house, a low row of green and brown ragged hedge growth before it; a young man and an old man. Old Man: A cold moon, and a slow dance Of clouds across it April that feels like the chill of March For the seasons have gone haywire And even the stars seems wrong in the sky. Yes, a cold moon, a moon that sends shivers Across my heart that has seen much And should fear nothing yet fears tonight. Young man: Stop your mutterings to the wind old man Your words are empty air. Old man: What can an old man do but mutter to the wind When the wind is muttering to me? Young man: You’re prone to windbag workings. Your mind remembers unwholesome thoughts And you give yourself over to them. But rouse yourself, here is a ruin Where we can take shelter and this hedge Will block the wind from working its ways Upon us. Old man: I know this place, I have been here before I know its recitals and its visions I feel the tragedy inherent in these stones