The Prodigal Son

all sinews straining
muscles fired in blackened bronze
reaching for heaven

Highgate

the warm rains come
lost souls to call
between the stones
into earth
the dead made fertile
with their bones
and wild garlic’s
dawn bouquet
greets the day
in scented purity
to stem all corruption

Smoke

that sleep’s care weighs not my eyes
do I count the night in burning wax
and watch the minutes stroke the sky
as smoking time which ne’er comes back

Tears (unfinished)

lament no fallen tears for me
as in their crystal clarity
can be found more than regrets
they reflect joy lest one forget

A TOMBSTONE IN OLD CALTON BURIAL GROUND, EDINBURGH

Euphemia Brown
departed this mortal plane
in her hundredth year

Bridge

the bridge in Brooklyn
painted in the snows of March
brushed by our footprints

Spectres

do not fear spectres
for they are simply as we
with stories to tell

Spring Dawn

clothe me in your mist
let the frost of your fingers
embrace my warm flesh

A Crhyme of Passion

consent to this
a first warm kiss
our desires to begin
and after such
the gentlest touch
of me on your skin
before we die
in pleasured sighs
of passions lost within

Smith

a blacksmith fires chains
to forge each link as roses
for his lover’s heart