Haunting
It is the living who haunt the dead,
Being pale and silent in graveyards and on
The scattering grounds, by ash-salted sea,
Flitting between somber saplings planted
By humanists in set aside fields. Our dead
Are possessed by us, their rot scented
With unsolicited flowers, names incised
Into stone as petrified memory
Over dates and doggerel as if
Of some significance. But, the deceased
Remain reserved, thoroughly undisturbed
By our pestering, about their business
Of death without any untoward show,
Utterly dedicated to absence,
Unrelenting in determined pursuit
Of their true vocation. For all that we
Pester them, demanding their attention,
Angered by their seeming indifference
To us, they keep a dignified silence:
And by that, and that alone, are we haunted.
Dave Alton
