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
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