Feathered Air

If flame there was ‘tis gone, all passion spent Men long dead or demented tell no lies No track or trace remains of where they went Of whether they were wicked or unwise If scent there was ‘tis blown, in feathered air Decaying roses, lilies, ashes, mould Unburied memories of who was there A whisper on the wind, a rumour told If blame there was ‘twas ours, for being blind For keeping silent doubt for all these years In tangled groves the truth is hard to find As unmarked mad men’s graves; weep hopeless tears For smoke there is, all round us like a cloud, Obscuring the light of fire from the crowd by Gail