death poem

green afternoon serene and bright
in all things not spoken of
friend, whose smile has come to be
with the meek, brown eyes
i loathed you
which i wish to remark
who is the runner in the skies
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
up from the meadows rich with corn
have you seen walking through the village
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
into the silent land