nature poem

your body's motion is like music
daughters of time
a gleam of gold in gloom and gray
once this soft turf
which keeps
eighty years have passed, and more
the arches of the red bridge
i make my shroud, but no one knows
for these white arms about my neck
in the dark and peace of my final bed
often i think of the beautiful town
with lips blood red and heart of stone
the darkness rolls upward
often is it not so?