A breath of wind catches in the birch trees,

fluttering the dry leaves and the small change

of the sun, and it seems for a moment that

the light is whispering.

There are ghosts in this place.

They are to be heard in the mouse-scratchings,

the seedpods cracking in the tindered broom,

the suck of the draught beneath the kitchen door.

The Grieves still move through these two rooms in

slow mutual orbits, with no need for words,

familiar and comfortable in their companionship;

two chittering lights, fingering the relics of their lives

and touching lightly the lingering echoes of the

laughter and the poetry with which the silence thrums.

And on such an evening as this,

when we have silence yet over the Border hills,

and the gloaming gathers softly about the door,

on the doorstep his voice still softly sings:

The rose of all the world is not for me…