The gravestone, cracked and

faint, once held meaning for loved

ones, now forgotten 

May the simple joy 

of a Sunday nap remind 

you what life can be 

The slips are empty 

and the boats headed south while we

wait for winter's breath 

I overhear the 

crows' conversation — is it

a squabble or news? 

Our cork boats rush down

the tiny fierce river towards 

an uncharted fate

The sky seems bluer

today, the air sweet, though 

the land's still fallow 

Nothing to see here 

but us fascist ghosts who with 

a wink renew hate