Mangroves

 These black bush-waters, heavy with crusted boughs 
Like plumes above dead captains, wake the mind.
.
.
.
 
Uncounted kissing, unremembered vows, 
Nights long forgotten, moons too dark to find, 
Or stars too cold.
.
.
all quick things that have fled 
Whilst these old bubbles uprise in older stone, 
Return like pale dead faces of children dead, 
Staring unfelt through doors for ever unknown.
 

O silent ones that drink these timeless pools, 
Eternal brothers, bending so deeply over, 
Your branches tremble above my tears again.
.
.
 
And even my songs are stolen from some old lover 
Who cried beneath your leaves like other fools, 
While still they whisper "in vain.
.
.
in vain.
.
.
in vain.
.
.
"

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