Silent Witness

Does the fallen feather tell

How far she flew,  in winter lands or summer,

Or if she lagged, or led the flock.

Does it tell of long migrations

Of glad arrival and soft nesting,

Or panic flutter in distress.

Of none of these can it speak.

It lies there to be fingered

By another indescribable mortal.

And the patient explorers of wrecks –

What can they tell from their scraping

And their scrupulous listing of relics.

What of the bills and manifests

That listed her many ventures;

The names of her crews and destinations.

How did she swim in heavy weather,

Riding-out the shouldering seas –

Or did she put her men in peril.

Gone is the wonder of her wandering

The maps that caught her men with magic

The nightly yarns of her survivals.

All her service lies in silence:

Only the stitching nails persist,

And the lines of her swimming timbers in the mud.

And the despoilers of empty buildings

Riffling the litter

What can their scavenging uncover.

For dust and web mask all endeavour

Blur the echoes and apparitions

Of the planners and the lovers in this place.

Mute the sharp hammers,  the men disbanded,

No colours, calls, nor revels are apparent –

All scattered is their enterprise.

And though the dissectors of corpses

Quickly discover the causes of death

They never uncover the causes we lived for.