Jack Scott writes

The Unrest

The wind rattled dry leaves in warning 
then, steeling itself with iciness, 
began drawing memories from the grave. 
Dust devils grew and danced their torment 
adorned with dry, brittle things 
becoming prancing phantoms 
that startled even wind 
so that it bit at them, 
sinking its teeth in 
like a mother cat 
bearing reluctant runt, 
unloved, to water for drowning. 
No one alive was there to see 
and so was spared the bone deep shock 
of air borne questions of 
the still shivering dead, 
dancing to the wailing of the banshee wind
on headstones and foot-worn paths 
and the winter-burnt brown grass, 
whispering in eternal tedium 
the unrest of what they’d neglected, 
and will now forever never rectify.
 
 -- Tracy Bean