They will not hush, the leaves a-flutter round me, the beech leaves old. – W.B. Yeats

Your sounds however, have died, and I hear nothing, Standing here, amidst bare beeches aglow is dawn’s fire.

We must have whispered our questions And declarations for only my protestations ring clear.

What was that you desired most and what was that I did not possess? As ice cold glasses mist over,

Many winters have obscured your image. And we now awaken In separate cities, in separate beds, next to still separated bodies.

Then what is that of you, that which even my heart forgot, My hot blood, rustling and snaking in the carpet of rusting beech Leaves, hungers and hunts this morning?