No thirst like that

Of bones dry to the marrow

Leached and bleached.


I am alone above ground.

The dead excellent company.

They listen, wisely adding nothing

Do not rail at red hawk

Sitting on a tombstone,

Deer grazing their graves,

Squirrel interring its small tribute.


I take them fine brews

Belgian and German,

A sip for me , then one

for the arid earth, but only

For the dormant poets.

Those Eatons and Masseys

Already hoisted the best

They can taste

Molson Canadian and like it.


So, a toast to the dead -

Their city of silence,

Soft presence on the air.













Drinking With The Dead

Text Box: John Oughton

Previous          Next



Text Box: Magazine / Web Design by Sharon Berg

~ << >> ~

All works in this periodical are copyright to the author and Big Pond Rumours, 2016. 
No part may be copied or reproduced without written consent of the authors and Big Pond Rumours Press.