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At Zhivago's Funeral
[inspired by Boris Pasternak's novel, Dr Zhivago]
And did you think, as shafts of winter sun
fall on his dead face, that you might have done
a little more to meet him once again,
to share, once more, the blisses that had been
yours and his, in each other's company?
Did this not seem a treacherous perfidy?---
your silence toward his still unspoken plea?
You move within, across, his poetry---
that witness of his love so passionately
expressed. Yet not enough (or so it seems)
to try to contact him (except in dreams).
Now here he is, before you, cold and dead;
in whom life's green and gold never ran red---
so few remain of whom that can be said.
Starward
[jlc]
