November Graveyard

The scene stands stubborn: skinflint trees
 Hoard last leaves, won't mourn, wear sackcloth, or turn
 To elegiac dryads, and dour grass
 Guards the hard-hearted emerald of its grassiness
 However the grandiloquent mind may scorn
 Such poverty. So no dead men's voices
 Flower forget-me-nots between the stones
 Paving this grave ground. Here's honest rot
 To unpick the elaborate heart, pare bone
 Free of the fictive vein. When one stark skeleton
 Bulks real, all saints' tongues fall quiet:
 Flies watch no resurrections in the sun.
 At the essential landscape stare, stare
 Till your eyes foist a vision dazzling on the wind:
 Whatever lost ghosts flare,
 Damned, howling in their shrouds across the moor
 Rave on the leash of the starving mind
 Which peoples the bare room, the blank, untenanted air.