Pieta
Donald Davie

Snow-white ray

coal-black earth will

swallow now.

The heaven glows

when twilight has

kissed it, but

your white face

which I kiss now does

not. Be still

acacia boughs,

I talk with my

small one. We speak

softly. Be still.

The sky is blind

with white

cloud behind

the swooping birds. The

garden lies

round us and

birds in the dead

tree's bare

boughs shut

and open themselves. Be

still, or be

your unstill selves,

birds in the tree.

The wind is 

grievous to the willow. The

underside of its

leaves as the wind

compels them is

ashen. Bow

never, nor dance

willow. How can

you bear it? My

head goes back on

my neck fighting

the pain off. Willow

in the wind, share it.

I have to learn

how time can be

passed in public

gardens. There my

dead lies idle. Much

bereaved and sitting

under a sunny wall

old women stare

through me. I

come too soon and

yet at last to

fixity, being alone and

with a crone's pastimes.