Magpie & the dead

From the chapel, a muttered kind
Of evensong

As if the day, chagrined 
At prosaic hours

The door prows a wave

Holds still, splits
Along the keel

Where one boat capsized
Two resurface
A tilted line, in reflection
The horizon bisecting monuments and earth

A magpie, creaking out
Gives the evening silver

They are not the dead

But fly languidly from grave to grave
Perching on our arch and glib effacements

Graffiti thrown like sticks
On the gateway’s
Unprepossessing defences 

Songs to silence, songs to wake

A boat so full of holes and binds
Of curled and flaked wrought iron 

You could easily step through
To a more pitiable contradiction

Of discomfiting formal attire
In splashed pretty chiaroscuro 

Head cocked, listening
A magpie reverence

Dreaming the quiet dreams
Of the dead