The moon was yellow as a plum,
The river made no sound,
That night I wove a song for you
And hit it in the ground.
But from the ground tall roses grew,
Ragged and sweet and red:
They built a wall against the song
I sang for one long dead.
Perhaps the flowers, more wise than
Set up those perfumed bars
Knowing your dust had left the earth
And blossomed into stars.
First published in The Bulletin, 14 March 1934
