For death is nothing but the origin of life,
A. C. Grayling, The Good Book
as life is the compensation of death.
the winter of my birth
gave me my first breath
of cold air and nature
at rest. i often fell asleep
to the croaking of rooks,
and the touch of white
marked me with a love
of simplicity. i was my
own, still unwritten
fulfilment.
the winter of my death
will most likely drown
in the rain and the crying
of seagulls. but although
i like the grey of granite,
please cover my naked
silence in a jute cloth
and bury it in a barren
field with a seedling
of the tree of life.
hidden pilcrow 