Echoes

there are echoes in the trees
of futures yet to be
and yesterdays unrealised,

the breeze, for just a moment
chilled by distant stars
reveals their meaning
and then all is lost to the night.

Endings

speak not of endings
soon enough without our pleas
they make themselves known

A Poet Breathed

A poet breathed
upon the cold window pane
and in his life’s breath
wrote her name
with the fingertips
he would often pray
would one day
with her fingers play

No Design

there is no blood
nor is there design
this is no hunter’s moon
just shadows
and light
smoke and mirrors
that play with our pain.

Clematis

plant clematis on my grave
to climb across the stone
that its flowers will engrave
their beauty on my bones

Wanton

how wanton my desire for thee
what soul’s fire inspires me
to my pursuit of passion’s true
my dreams engage to painting you
in deep red shadows unrestrained
the body from the mind enflamed
that these debauched images rent
my lustful flesh to your consent

Feathers

I found torn feathers
scattered under the birch trees
in patterns of death

Bloodlines

I write lines in blood
though not yet shed from my veins
they pulse in my heart

Eden’s Orchard

liberate yourself
submit to temptation’s taste
admit the serpent

Swallows

that I could follow
where the swallows
dare to show the wind its whims
across the meadows
swooping shallows
swift as arrows on the wing.

They care not
of the world below
nor cares the world
for where they go
hurried spirits
of heaven’s blue
pause not to dwell
on me, or you.