November

November

November

Again the parlour has filled to overflowing
with the beloved dead – and I

stand distraught outside the great blurred window
looking in; little light where I am,

a soft persistent starlight; where they are, there are chandeliers,
though the dead are distant, a little

indistinct; they have been blown, perhaps, through the open door
into the hallway, like those several

beautifully veined and parti-coloured leaves, old gold and scarlet,
from the trees that stand

bereft of summer, bare-head to the chilled and chilling
sky; and have wandered in

through that other door we never opened, and though they are
a little ruffled at the edges, a little

sere, they are upright and lightly swaying, the best crystal
in their hands; grandfather, possibly,

in the far corner, by the walnut cabinet, a vague
moustachioed figure, Nanna, wearing

her best of smiles, serving; closer, by the oil-lamp,
motherfather, fathermother, relishing –

as they never did before – a happy foolishness; closer still,
behind the net-curtained window, my

brother, cured of all ills, and laughing; there is a shadowy
and shrouded host-like figure

moving quietly amongst them, greeting them all with a little
laughter. Ah well, we have allowed them

this one month to be amongst us, this first mustering
of winter, as if they were not always there

before our consciousness, calling out against our grieving.