A history of dust

Our world is made from rags and feathers

from silver, pearl and ivory.

Carefully, we model our treasures

from iron and mahogany.

We design them artfully.

We measure and saw, grind and scutch

but time degrades our industry

reducing our labours to not much.

It refashions our endeavours.

They swirl around us, here and there

a silky residue of wind-blown particles

soft to the touch, returned to air

with spent atoms of used skin and rust

our vanity, a history of dust.

Crossing the lake

The ice is thin, we risk falling through

And yet we cross the frozen lake

Is it because we have no choice?

Or is it because we want to –

That we are afraid of mundanity?

You showed us how. You had been there before

We were reassured by your voice

The grace of your words, your nonchalance

Your strong narratives of blood and place

Seemed to anchor us in reality

You were never afraid to look down

Perhaps you saw shadows congealed below

Your poems were not merely beautiful

You were perfect in your ordinariness

Rockstars attended your funeral

The ice is thin, we risk falling through

And yet we walk, or dance, across the lake

To be human is to nudge calamity

Is it because we have no choice?

Or is it because we seek eternity?