The wind is icy, the stars far,
but youth spins and glides
across the ice-pond,
carves deep, round, figure eights,
startles hungry ducks.

Behind the gravestone,
lovers frighten sparrows,
mourners, even the wild-flowers
draping the cross.
When nascent bodies
prod and arch,
death must wait its turn.

A child chases squirrels,
tosses rocks at pigeons.
A running boy
knocks an old man into oblivion.
A young girl’s moment
is fresher, prettier than
the grandmother’s ninety years.

It’s their world,
to do with
as their sons and daughters please.