River

I miss my river
grey though she
ebbs and flows
slowly lapping
with a kind
of resignation
as she dwells
upon her glories
past and famed
but still
I miss her sounds
her accent rare
and noises off
banks north and south
the songs she sang
and those not sung,
her lack of airs
despite her graces
which other
grander courses
of well renown
present, these
only make her
feel right
and me feel right
in turn

First Breaths

In choral turns their pleas are heard
the weary finch, the proud blackbird
round robin bold, shy hatch and hen
a starling insecure, and wren
from song to song and tree to tree
no ear can match this symphony
nor pen, nor pipe or soft tapped string
could hope to vie with feathered things.

Unfinished Birdsong

the throstle wakes
as so must I it seems
her song invades
yet not disturbs my dreams
there may be clouds
uncertain in the dawn
yet the song thrush
seems to minds not
and greets the coming morn,
but will her lover
duet to her cries
soulful from the barest trees
beneath these youngest skies
or has the night before them
driven death’s dark veil
between her plaintive arias
sung sweet to no avail.

Twilight’s Edge

twilight descends
quick and steel cold
as a slipped blade
upon my throat,
and with its coming
warm blood is shed
as is the passing day.

Bronze

bronze dawn
cast the next days in your light
the winter was molten
and seeks now the crucible
of an early springtime.

of the gods

Above this sea
of Tyranny
in air
so fair refined
my words fly free
from inside me
and bare
themselves to rhyme.

Here on high
in azure skies
the world
unfurls unknown
fine or profane
’tis all the same
to gods, and I
alone.

twelve lines

I walked through purple heathers wild
their heads washed fresh with dew
and in their perfumed boudoir
I wrote this song for you
I sang it as the sun gave way
to fogs upon the glen
and even o’er the mists of time
I’ll sing it now and then
whenever heathers breathe the air
and sigh their last bouquet
my thoughts within these simple words
is all I’ll have left to say.

To Sorrow

If there be a sound to sorrow
it will not cry in shedded tears
but joyful birdsong on the ’morrows
when I am gone and shall not hear

Dream Maiden

how dreams the maiden
of whom my dreams writ’ fair
could it be
in her sweet reveries
’tis me, that she finds there?

L’épitaphe de l’hiver

the winter weeps its last
yet it is plain to see
its former youth is passed
and ready to sleep is he
who but short days ago
had such teeth and claw
to rip the world with snow
but seeks to hunt no more

the tears of ice have dried
with spring’s new born ascent
and days of darkness die
though not their vowed intent
to someday walk again
and hold reign o’er the earth
to waste this world of men
in bitter death’s rebirth.