Racing the headlights to the top of the moor
now comes the annual unadmitted fear
of nothing to say; no true friendship
except the ties of old tragedies,
the creaking family jokes,
overlapping memories now long-overlaid.
Old tapestries in a new house
There is no rule that brothers must be friends.
And yet each year the building of a bond,
not new perhaps, but over and above
reiteration of the old,
beyond mere sharing of a grief.
We seek and find our solaces alike
unearthing joys and consolation
together, on the same high hills
where the heavens touch, and seem
to half-unfold, in silent air,
theodicy. Not explanation –
not a form of words. But truth,
the kind that lets us all go on.