twa pomes.

Easter
Day-dropped dew ringing the shout,
the thorn-crown red-weeping,
and the sad-glad news of dogwood
timber holding the man.
Today,
life begins.

The wee white cat.
I fear you, wee white cat,
footpad of the night, and more so
than your sablecoat brother.
Which hollow hill did you sneak from,
to munch on mortal mice?
You jump away from the car speeding —
do you fear the weight or the iron
that makes it?

Memoriarum

memories of us staring up together,
diamond-dappled velvet
reaching above,
calm embracing air
filled by the dry scent
of fir needles, pine sap,
whisper-quiet owl wings,
bringing more restless summers –
sun pouring orange through smoke
only to glint back in rainbows
rippling from river-rills,
smokey sweet-sour taste
of barbeque on my tongue,
your summerleaf-green eyes
laughing back at me,
winking like a mischievous brounie,
caught dipping in the whisky.

I see long nights with decks of cards,
sitting far in the back of a old bus,
watching the long miles roll away
to see the city on the bay
and the long gold thread
spread between land and land,
see the mix of water falling and rain,
pool under waterfall, fern-shrouded,
exhilaration to tired boys, the thrill
of leather balls soaring away,
whacked out by hickory wood,
rusty smell of shoes running dust-paths.

memories re-kenned
by eldritch eyes
sing summer’s hymn,
as harvest-sweet hair
and the berry-taste of your lips
make more.