Dead Poet

I read poetry to the dead.

The tombstones are my audience.

Kilkeney from Cork Ireland wept for my piece on doubt and love.

Bradley clapped when I spoke of the burning trees.

My best came when little Audrey, aged 12, laughed at my poem

of goats and rabbits jumping over the fences to escape the prison of

Farmer Bob.

I walk among friends who are no longer living.

Their cold stones inspire me to stay alive

and write more words for the dead.

I read my poems to the dead

and their silent applause

warms my soul and fills my heart.