The Day Ends

islands beckon me
shadows on the horizon
as I drift westward

Magpie Dream (the last poems : III)

what remnants of my soul did fly
as the midnight blue magpie
into an unknown parting sky
that did in winter burn

I watched this darkened silhouette
disappear into the west
to what it found I can’t attest
for my soul did not return.

Sunday

I shall die on Sunday
in one coming July
to the sound of bossa nova bees
and the scent of honeysuckle high

I shall drift on Sunday
under my last blue sky
tasting first kiss memories
on petals brushing by

I shall leave on Sunday
and not hear Monday cry
for Sunday waits beyond the trees
whispering all goodbyes.

The End

The last bookshop burned
its ashes covered a world
where nobody wept.