Nothing To Be Said

For nations vague as weed,

For nomads among stones,

Small-statured cross-faced

And cobble-close

In mill-towns on dark

Life is slow dying.

So are their separate

Of building, benediction,

Measuring love and

Ways of slowly dying.

The day spent hunting pig Or holding a garden-party,

Hours giving

Or birth,

On death equally slowly.

And saying so to

Means nothing; others it

Nothing to be said.