First Lessons in Wendish

Prussian is gone, and Wendish,
and no-one knows how they called
the cows home, or named a dog,
or came to terms on pillows
in the reaches of the night

as nameless constellations,
quite differently configured,
wheeled sublimely overhead
in a silence less complete
than the Prussians and the Wends

have draped their language in, steeped
in black, beyond recall or
conjuration while their gods
languish in a waiting room
on a discontinued line.

David Callin

If you have any thoughts on this poem,   David Callin  would be pleased to hear them.