wearied by their
labours on parched land
(the sun like an evil heart)
with dry hands on
brass grips
they have carried
in freshcut pine
cargoes to the burying fields –
and at night
in their lowslung abode
(its timbers cracking as it cools)
have intoned a dirge,
quietly to begin with,
but rising in a
crescendo of reverence –
becoming a nocturne,
swelling –
their robes shimmering,
feet drumming the floor to rough dust
then flinging their heads
in an ecstasy of living, of existence, eros
