Focus on Frame!
The dead – Janet Frame
I have nothing to say to the dead
unless they approach me first.
It is their right to come to me
with a soft step, singing
or moaning as they please.
The dead cry all night under the tree.
I never tire of listening to them.
Sometimes I want to invite them in
to warm their hands by the fire
but nobody wants the dead inside,
especially not the living. Lock the door,
keep them out, they say,
or the next thing you know
they will overcome you with death,
they will feed from you, rob you,
tap your blood and you preserved memory.
The dead have no memory. A torn scarf
flows in and out of their head, controlled
by the wind of forgetfulness, not by the dead,
and where the end or the beginning may be
the dead do not know
who have no memory, no memory.
I found these poems in an old poetry anthology from school. Unfortunately there isn't a reference for where they originally came from.