The sap has dried, disabled stalks have turnedTo compost – and he’d know the truth of that.
For me decay, for him life’s stuff re-formed,
It’s not my field, I’ll simply tip my hat.
Others have taken this way. Like E. who“Passed by – like Time” and died, another friend.
Her roots were strong, the wit between us grew,
She blossomed to an uncomplaining end.
In glades of death the plant that grows is loss,Who needs a bell that sounds nonentity?
Why should it be worth my while to doss
Down here wanly in tranquillity?
Text is quite silent, echoes come from sound,Where else might such a miracle be found?