Leslie Philibert (6th March 1954 / London, England)
All Saint`s Day
A bleached evening, grey
my memory follows me into the cold
the ice records my steps, and peeks
at my afraid progress.
I lay in humility on the damp earth
a priest unable to bear the face of God,
the trees make a lot of noise, the feel as
important as a kestrel in balance with the sky
my face is a forgotten piece of washing on a line
as stupid as a lonely dancer in the wind.
Nothing can be created, all that is holy has been
turned into foulness, gold and silver behind glass.
Comments about this poem (All Saint`s Day by Leslie Philibert )
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