The Oldest of Ghosts

The Oldest of Ghosts

He is the oldest of ghosts
Knows no time, knows no grief
Knows not the peace of half-light
Nor the glow between sleep and waking hours.

((Time is a ponderous jest
Under which I cup my tears.))

Antiquarian aches mire their shapes
In crevices, in dark fissures
In no ways he may reach
On the frigid moors he haunts.

((Here then is an elsewhere
Where my weight bears fruits of ice.))

And if you chance upon his grey immortal eyes
You will see the shorn beds sorrow lies you in
And if by chance he speaks his woes
You will know the black manes of old
That judgment entangles you in.

He will tell you all and still you will know
nothing.

((These are my constant ways and means
In a life I do not live.))