Hugo Wolf at Traunkirchen

The water was still in mourning,

preserving more than a reflection

of his tormented face.

Bone, flesh and blood fell like a star,

his life one rage too far

to bear another gift.

The lake was then unwilling to accept

one for whom joy was spent,

his mind burnt out.

Was it a kindness to haul him back

to his insanity, speechless

and paralysed?

Here was a man, whose anger could be roused

by a cricket chirping in his room,

made dumb as the moon.

We rowed across his dark, aborted grave

and felt the shadows cling

like oil-slicks to our bow.

EDWARD STOREY