memory of the marabou

here the sun has no warmth
the snow is glittering
reflecting light
on the hazel catkins

they dared first to
signal spring,
they had no choice,
they flower

because they must.
i wonder how they
feel, stronger than ice,
swaying in the wind.

frost has its own
clear beauty, fragile
in time, all beauty
is transformation

and death is magic
too, so is all life
unfolding the secret
of gates and alchemy

waking i remembered
the marabous standing
clacking and feeding
around the slaughterhouse

in Kampala, undertakers,
gravely nodding with
a stiff gait, off and on
flapping their wings

they just do what they
do, eating the dead,
none of the suffering
before reaches them

they appear indifferent
but how would i know?
there is murder everywhere,
and death is never far.

the sun in Uganda
was hot, the land
there filled with
the stink of decay

flesh rotting, marabous
cleaned the place,
no black limousines,
no priests hiding the truth

now, better i go out
and let memories go
in the cold and biting
air of frost and snow

i am here,
now,
though i carry death-
alive