The Alchemist

He is intent, by slow degrees, on turning grief
to silence, walling it in blocks of ice
huge in each public place, where passers-by
will point and marvel at its powerlessness.

On his small scales he measures out
a witches brew of gossips’ tongues,
cat-calls, lovers’ whispers, babies’ wails,
girls’ giggles, lost chords, feathered throats.

And soon enough his hoar-frost runnels creep
to offices and homes, paint fern-shapes
on the window panes, fractals on the mirrors.
Around the tea-table we turn our collars up,

stamp muted feet against the eerie chill
our sounds are folding in upon themselves
the clank of cutlery is muffled under snow
conversation lost in distance through the fog.

He is tireless with the tools of transmutation.
I hold my breath to see if he is more effectual
than my fumbling metamorphosis of sorrow’s stone
to seas of salt, and tidal waves of tears.