On Castle Hill

I topped the lonely drumlin’s crest
where even swallows came to rest
among the slated crags of yore
I looked across the lowland moors
and meadows wide and far below
that had on my ascent bestowed
such sights I felt for angels meant
as beauteous as the firmaments
that poets in their fevered dreams
would compose of stanzas clean
in verse to help them comprehend
that which their gods did intend
for here is where man’s hand had ceased
and nature’s arms brought me to peace.


In the still of morning
wrapped in birdsong
and the day’s last chill
fragranced by the passage of night
across the trees
I lose myself in a moment
one of a million I’m certain
a tangible peace
which glisters as crystal
then cracks and shatters,
as such moments, like we
are fragile things
and time’s hands know no delicacy

Canvas : 20th June 2019

in their countless numbers fly
the ravens cross a moonless sky
above the red house on the hill
from the days this night to kill
black is the canvas that they paint
blood red the brush from which it’s tainted
what savage artist bore this scene
is only guessed at, never seen
for when the blackbirds take to arms
no fault is claimed by those whose harm
transcends their petty palette’s slight
to condemn us cursed to this last night
and we who live and love and dream
are sacrificed to ill thought schemes