Moon Hill

On an ancient hill in Yorefolkshire
Encircled by the whispering oaks,
Who sway in the wind’s gentle stir,
Unremittingly striving to coax
The Moon out of her silver dress,
I lie, enthralled by her quiet caress.

The Moon gives in to the oaks’ plea
And slips out of the cloud she wore,
Casting her smile on all, with glee.
I look up and with my eyes explore
The expanse unveiled by her light,
Enchanted by the pastoral sight.

A brook nearby laughs with a star,
Its image caught in her nacre lips;
The blue meadows that stretch afar
Into the night, speckled with cowslips,
Form a tranquil ocean of shapely waves,
Which my melancholic soul enslaves.

Wet with dew and on the hill supine,
For a more innocent age I long,
For a forlorn communion I pine.
We once belonged to the same Song,
The trees, the stars, the brook and I;
A symphony from beyond the Sky.

18 September 2008

Monolith

Flamboyant they came,
Hapless they went;
Lovers, suitors, hopefuls and friends
They fled.

Her body was open,
Hers arms Christ-like
But her heart -
Och! - her heart…

How many young ships,
Eager to dock,
Breached their hulls
In her murky waters?

I knew such a man;
His heart went for a dander
And never came back.
His mind is gone.

But the murderess
Was herself
More ensanguined
Than her ghosts;

For cruel, she was not.
Nicht wirlkich.
Naïveté
Was her bane.

The stone slab
That her ribs housed
Was never engraved
By anyone. Ever.

This, one supposes,
Is her epitaph,
By one detached enough
To care.

August 2008