Deep in centuries

by Robin Fulton Macpherson

Unmelted snow on high ridges.
Far above summits a blue sky
has spent all day turning so blue
it´s black. Across it, something like
alphabets disintegrating:
each shape, that once was a letter,
Is a soft-edged hesitant wisp.

At ground level we leave behind
the graveyard with its hard-edged dates.
High summer sycamores, at peace
for centuries, watch over us
like parents who are always there,
who don´t die, who take care of us
especially after our deaths.