For Edward Hartnett

born 12 October 1942,
died 29 November 1942

1

Birds cross
the lunar apex
and cry down
the salt-made balconies of stone:
his voice from bill of sea-mew,
caved in his limbo.
Edward.
That I should mourn, he speaks
out of the earth he has become,
his sound
the echo of his longing to be here.
Every gathering of branch and cliff,
star and wing-clip
calls him here,
implies his absence:
I have borrowed his life
and, perhaps, his poetry.

2

We are alone.
Toned by rock
the wind gesticulates
and white by moon
the sea throws up its arms.
We are alone
because the dead are alone.