Quiet Conversations Of The Dead

I recall the flaunted fragrance of summer, the plum, the dog-wood, the apple-blossoms, the bright sun through leaves, the budded lilac, the bloomed garden’s flower, the mound of colour. I recall soft orange earth where tall green weeds writhed restlessly in the full south wind, and pale ghosts fed slant stones in graveyards quiet conversations of the dead underneath shattered moonlight. And I recall heart-shaped souls singing verses of blue-purple grief amid wind-beaten puffs of silver clouds and brighter-than-white moon, their songs charging with the swollen river to a forgotten bay over the sea.