The house of Boris Pasternak
I hear your voice held inside the wind.
The chant hollow, empty as the Steppes.
Love veiled in eternity, ancestry revealed
as starry-eyed we see into the past.
You whisper of needs unfulfilled;
appetites beyond the ken of mortal sight;
and anger at lives lost.
Behind this bitter song the sweetest melody
is carried by the leafless silver birch.
A balalaika croons the old refrain;
rippling chords vibrate against my heart;
and a chestnut’s fallen leaves
chatter like a child again.
‘Come back to me, come back my darling boy’.
You urge my step to pierce the darkling veil.
And yet within your dulcet tone,
resounds a prayer older than creation.
That you might leave behind the vale of shadows