A Kensington Vespers

(i)

There are no words
in the afterlife;
a sound reason
to have nothing to do with it.

But if, when we die,
we re-join our dead
mothers and fathers,
and old forebear Darwin,

how full of noises
will the island be: how lively
the songs, arguments, shrieking;

thunder, sea chewing loud
on its own margin,
high wind or Zephyr's
benign one a background

music for young women
laughing at a picnic in sunshine
or the pop of a cork,

gurgle of Fleurie
...