in the pale naked running
of fall on amber fell
granite and shale in cutting
and there is little concern for
if these lilt and lang of words
are sensible or sane
there is only the running
come chill the winds' bite
with the descent of eventide
old jack gives kiss on flesh
in the pale naked running
of fall on amber fell gone rime
granite and shale in cutting
how grey must i grow?
an endless wait for
the beat of ravens' wings
flying low over
fresh fallen snow
sometimes the then seems
are not really any things at all
but other seems unconsidered
that beckon with their call, so
now back to the la-z-boy and
the rocking and the nights, dreaming
new oaks from acorns alone
but no, no, don't let seams show
keep all those seems deep inside
turning towards headstones
these broken days we, under
the curtains green falling
& lost in the dream
stolen kiss on the cheek
in the nip of first frost
woolen the warmth
given your arms around
another nordeast night
chasing phantoms
through busy streets
hands in hand
feet never touching ground
as the crowds gather 'round
for the samhain fires
would the i could
i would be larking
there still
dead or not dead
does it matter?
these are ghosts lost
to the mists of time
filling in the wake behind
i drank river water
tasting of whiskey
so very long ago
with autumn leaves
i skitter towards my
stone twilight grey
to go back to mud
root in and ashen
rest awhile & slumber
winter in the long
dark come
this scrimshawed heart
slenders back to
a lingering song
playing on the wire
in the wind
having slipped through the land
last night, here, through
this clay stuff found under feet
i wondered at my mouth
forgetting the words to speak
and realize we are blind
and none can hear
what i say in the anyway
including me.
so i gave over to falling
until i could fall no more
and sat unexpectant down
there in the below
waiting for the dark sun days
to call me back up, out
and forth, but only
if what is when might be
she returned
my stolen knot wings broken
and gave me whale
mixed with trinkets and scorn
to prove that she was well
she is not well
i slipped my wings
gently back on
gave the whale
to my pocket
to contemplate
later on
slipping through door
in the wee soul hours
shuttered and locked behind
wayfaring the north road home
