narrative poetry

backward, turn backward
into the silent land
i made a vow once, one only
i gazed upon the glorious sky
how wild, how witch-like weird that life should be
from our hidden places
among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon
grieve not for the invisible
gone before us
she has a clear, wind-sheltered loveliness
though i am little as all little things
what spiteful chance steals unawares
were it not for that singular smell