The Silence
The dead we think are gone except
when dreams return them. So it was
Frank Sargeson took me aside
in Hell and said, “You know, my friend,
the ways the wind among the reeds
is used by shaman and guru,
rabbi and priest.” He had the face
of Dante’s much-loved preceptor
Brunetto Latini among
the sodomites, as we ambled
down the avenues of the damned;
and he, brushing ash from his sleeve
went on, “Those with a patch of earth
and running water lack vision,
preferring to leave such mysteries
to desert- and mountain-dwellers
and the poor of Varanasi.
Where little is lacking listen
always to the silence until
you hear it whisper its name.” So
he faded into fire, and I,
half-waking, wrote to remember
all that he’d said – and listened for
the silence, and could not hear it.
C K Stead