Grandfather

My grandfather turns quiet when hearing about death The inexplicable Dragging its cloak across our ancient rug Distracting dust and careless things The mundane work The house, The family, The television news, Our garden, his trees And people Who pass away at noon. My grandfather is watering the quince tree And salt has dried the crust of stranger things Harsher still the sky is getting blue A bruise on the skin of God We penetrate the window, watching our granddad Pulling out the weeds with his perceptive hands Afraid to spill the soil Devouring the light, his silver hair Disquieting the things that are to come. I call his name He nods And things are silent once again.