These willows are crones,
drinking tea, sipping
tea with the newly dead,
who have arrived recently.
Around them, the grass
is piling endlessly.
Nothing can hold it back.
Nothing can keep it away.
My wife’s grave is nestled
in the shadow of a tree,
a shadow which
will soon cover me.
Of what use is poetry?
I place my flowers
near her grave.
I stare at nothing, and
nothing stares back at me.
George Freek
Euphony Journal 