Transgression of the poppy field,
An unseen divide.
A step into his forest, was taken,
The Baron's precious garden, his pride.

Hounds, carrion birds,
Three days since released.
Tamed to pursue his game,
Escape to the prey would not be a relief.

Gradient of the path,
Can only lead to the mire.
Mammoth or Moth regardless,
Eaten by the murky pyre.

Hand in hand,
They, the Baron's past time;
Ran three days from the manor
Blind, in stillborn moonlight.

Scraping, stumbling, falling.
Roots drink their blood.
Prey and prisoners of the night,
In the forest of the evergreen flood.

Groping through the dark,
Evidence of fear in torn faces.
Vines their shackles,
Their stench leaving traces.

The baying of the Shamans,
Ullulating in alien tongues,
Became songs singing
Of lives in the forest undone.

The Forest, never once
Did it disappoint its master.
Earthly bane, poison sap,
Nurtured by her, the mother gardener.

She emerged from the swamp,
Naked, a lipless face.
Devoid of two limbs
Bearing the Cyclop's curse with grace.

Hopping faster than sense permitted,
One legged she bustled.
Towards the six hundred sixty seventh and sixty eighth.
She, a mass of bone and muscle.

As her Master would have it,
All life must be extinguished.
The Child, with rope she suspended.
High at the treetops the form diminished.

Before the Man could look,
The Child's head was no more.
An inverted fountain of blood erupted,
And drizzled upon his nose.


Frenzied he ran, tears stillborn,
Drove himself straight into an iron stake.
Dead eyes looked even as the Baron's champion said;
"A Hunter always knows his Master's estate."

On a chariot built on MRF,
Wearing jeans tapered;
She came along on the misty road,
To become the three day neighbour.

Seventy two hours,
Companionship formed on nerves.
The mountain boy saw
Perfection incarnate in the girl.

Giddiness was newfound freedom,
From the everyday, the mundane.
City girl, she with hair amber,
Object of desire she became.

A brave question burning holes;
Embers on his mind's hand.
He asked late, but in time,
"Where do our feelings stand?"

Rattled, she took a pilgrimage.
To the basketball court.
******* her eyes shut,
The biggest frog stuck in her throat.

Fifty seven minutes invested,
Pondering on this question.
Changing lives in the future,
Was then not thought, not mentioned.

"Yes", slow, measured response,
A jig for joy, delighting the teens,
Naivete thrives and blooms,
Where experience hasn't been.

Arms around her waist,
She let him feel like the one.
Their heads over heels,
Quickly, both made a run.

Breathing consciously,
The pair arrived at a Church.
Colonial structure, abandoned it beckoned,
An unbroken pew, his search.

He led her in, held her at
An arm's length.
Distance never crossed before,
His face came forward, an achievement.

And brushed softly
Against her mouth, his lips in trance.
He was sure when fire was found,
The Early Man danced the same dance.

Simple moment, evanescent,
It had to end of course.
Neither pulled back from the other,
Someone had opened the doors.

****** out of his revery,
Brought back to working cognition,
Realisation of the first kiss,
Dawned, it was beyond imagination.

Fourteen and in love,
Armed with a strong belief.
Life would never separate,
Him from the love he'd received.

Child, you were wrong
Says he, Seven years now dead.
Remembering the day she left,
A thousand tears were shed.

Impossible
Were his wishes gallore.
To find her, reach her, to hear
Her voice once more.

Years spent in isolation,
Anger and Hate never his friends.
How does one feel animosity,
When the heart wants amends?

Amber angel, if you ever see
The mountain boy, do reach out.
Never a need to make up for time lost,
But return the love he had found.

The library is not familiar to me
but I can walk blindfolded.
I have known better places
yet I can be in peace.

For it is not the books,
it is nothing else.
Other than what I love,
that girl hidden from my looks.

She glides across the aisle
and grabs her little book.
Like a nimble ballerina,
she spins along in style.

I leave each row behind
stacked with those tomes of memories.
A predator would be put to shame,
if she knew what was on my mind.

Close yet careful I would look at her
a surreal dream in reality.
Is she but a fragment of my thought?
I know there is naught an answer.

Eyes which peek and glance
every second an infinite.
And if she ever caught me looking,
the red on her cheeks would dance.

How I would give
how much more I would take,
to tell her of my being;
for the girl in the library, was the only motive.

Nomine Christi Amen
gushing,  came a crescendo;
Tenor, Alto, Baritone and Mezzo,
along-with an angelic Soprano.

In *Christ's Holy Name
she sang with those of Faith.
While snow-laden trees
falsely sheltered a human wraith.

Unlike some on the street,
his lips were cold but not complaining.
Two frozen crutches, his legs; yet
heart warm and with purpose, beating.

A cigarette in his mouth,
skin like the smoke, deathly white.
Discomfort was an easy price
for watching his lover tonight.

As the final notes passed,
of the Diminuendo, into the night;
the pews were left in a rush of haste,
by people eager for homely sights.

Slowly the Gabriel Choir also
departed to its own ways.
The silent Soprano singing to herself
at the right of God, in wait.

Out by the door, he came,
and held her in full sight.
The neon-lit cheap Cross, humming
songs of static to a drowsy night.

And not unlike the moths,
fatally attracted to an electric glow,
he trudged along inside, to her;
ache of cold bones lost in the snow.

Expanded pupils relaxed,
dilated to a semblance of normalcy.
As his stoic eyes adjusted,
his lover, was all he could see.

A moonlit shaft of dust-motes
played above her head.
Whilst she watched him approach, with
Neptune eyes of the Ocean-bed.

Fifteen steps of a distance,
and he came to the edge.
Existed nothing beyond this, save
two entwined breaths.

A soft parting of her lips,
almost soft as a whisper.
Much like the snow melting
at the passing of an unyielding winter.

Rosemary, Sage and Thyme,
odor of her skin, him it assaulted.
Aroused his senses, memories
of a Home long discarded.

You took your time,
complained the Soprano gently.
Your Daddy's gift ran out of gas,
he rebutted amused, mildly.

They left the Church, as ordinary
as the Sun, to eyes unwary.
But a keen observer would compare this companionship
to His and Magdalene's Mary's.

++

The Glasgow George Square,
above two heads, it looms.
Residential Avian families echoed their voices,
with soft caws, chirps and coos.

The Soprano sings a merry hymn,
an invitation to them, a debate.
Gladly did the residents accept, 'tis sufficient
to say the dialogue did not abate.

And whilst she sang her tune,
they replied in equal measure.
He looked into his empty cigarette holder,
wistfulness is seldom a pleasure.

A kiss on the cheek and a hand,
tender on her waist he kept;
I'll be sitting over there, Eve,
come when you are content.

He watched her then; the Soprano,
joyous yet somber as she sang.
Till the bell from the Church, in finality,
ten times it rang.

The dialogue it then ended,
with the Avian families eager for more.
For not many deliver them, from
their monologues in the cold.

She walked to him, steady
a child of gazelles and nimblest of men.
The aura of her pulsating radiance,
begging to enfulge them.

Outstretched hands, even
on plain Earth devoid of danger,
to those in love may feel like
a lifeline to grasp and reach a place safer.

He took her in, his arms
all the Sanctuary she needed.
A sober expression, not always
reflects that the soul in fact is elated.

They walked again, two souls in the streets
of Cochrane, Ingram and Miller.
What trouble is distance to a man's feet,
when another pair walks together?

St. Enoch's came and passed too,
so did Dixon Street and its leaves, strewn.
Till the lovers came to rest, at The Clyde
reflecting the newborn moon.

Night-time, self-proclaimed
sailors still pedaled and rowed.
While The Clyde, with its waters black, licked
the bridge across the road.

Care for a swim milady?
he chided with a boyish smile.
Amusing the Soprano now and then,
was indeed worthwhile.

Eve, he uttered, at a roll
of her eyes. His muse, her name.
Quick pecks on the lips
could put woodpeckers to shame.

Its cold she replied, Mona Lisa
smile hiding amusement unknown.
He led her away away from the breeze,
It was time to go home.

++

A glorious smell of familiarity,
came with the inevitability of Dawn.
Arms at ease around her waist,
her head tucked under his jaw.

Oi, he asked her to wake up, attempts
in futility, not always are of lost cause.
A soft moan and to press closer
was all he received for a response.

Oblivious, on purpose with
no heed to the workings of the world outside.
In ceaseless comfort of slumber,
wrapped around each other they did hide.

Warm of skin, warm of heart,
a bed warmed by nightly hours.
The Soprano and he, content
in their lovely little Glasgow bower.

Moons waxed and waned,
Suns rose and fell.
Every breath escaping their lips,
only promise it would foretell.

For a man needs not much, save
his Love, his God and his Peace.
The Soprano sang each morn, blessed by the Lord
his life, calm as the Clydian breeze.

The Song of Life went on for them,
each day the same as last.
The Glasgow Soprano sang till his death,
but her Voice he took with him as he passed.

It is not her fault,
That she never felt my embrace,
The moment when she knew
She was my only friend.
That she never felt my eyes,
Graze across all of her,
The moment when she knew
She was the most beautiful in them.
That she never had a shadow,
Trailing her every move,
The moment when she knew
From her, it could not be removed.
That she never had her heart racing
As I climbed in through windows,
The moment when she knew
Watchmen could not keep me away.
That she lost what was precious,
Replaced by what was half its worth,
The moment when she knew,
She would never be happy again.
That she picked the half broken toy,
To play with as time passed,
The moment she knew,
Distractions faded quite fast.
That she breathed his name,
As I pretended to be in her,
The moment she knew
Lustful words were just sweet breeze.
That she never forgot the moments,
Which left her marred,
The moment when she knew
I was not him after all.
That she missed all the moments,
Which could have made us better,
The moment when she would know,
We truly belonged together.

I once held a pen in a calloused hand,
a pen which I compared to you.
With that pen a story was wrought,
a page of my life through and through.

Much like the dying sun,
there is brilliance before it sets.
With my heart I'd say it was the same for me,
the page was as beautiful as it gets.

I wrote and I wrote,
I wrote till my hand bled.
The pen; never-ending as it was,
brought the page to life when the book was dead.

The pen gave birth to feelings,
so ethereal, yet so tangible.
Feelings never written in the book again,
every other page jumbled and illegible.

Unlike the previous pages,
this one wasn't scribbled upon.
This was a piece of endless art,
crafted by that pen each and every waking dawn.

The pen moved, it glided across,
writing, shaping  those words.
And as the page filled with her,
It was then I realized what really hurts.

It was the fear, it was the scratch,
writing the closure of the beginning.
I would fear the ink was running out,
it would seem like the page was already ending.

And for all the joy it brought,
and in all my persistent revelry,
I had soon forgotten of the ink's transience,
and of my malicious ecstasy.

It spread, oh lord it did,
like a poison in these veins.
The page soaked too much of the ink,
it ruined itself to the pen's disdain.

The page became fuller,
with the wan and wax of the moon.
Even when I would not write,
sprawled across were pretty words of doom.

And as it so ended,
with the page having no more space,
The pen, untimely, was forced to stop,
with the book shut on my grave, derived of any trace...

In the bower, shell of earth,
She stood, sunlight bathed.
Bare apparition near the hearth,
Reveals skin to eyes depraved.

Cobwebs of night
Sandman the spider, he wrought.
Wrapped his eyes and his mind,
All his nightmares in the web, caught.

Twilight skin
Viper of dreams, it shed.
Scaly, fluid it slithered,
Swallowing his screams to death.

Endless limbs
Hellish dreams, Lizard-like.
His mind severed one for another,
Only never feeling contrite.

Bed of worms,
The darkest recess, reached.
Spilled forth, the vermin devouring,
His mind, his world breached.

Buried with ****** of horror,
Ceaseless, seamless night.
Traveller with no form, to him,
The pleasure of awakening, denied.

Bone needle,
Jarred in wooden skin.
Silver thread glistens
In murky crimson sap, blood-akin.

Disciple Ajörn,
Squints beyond yonder.
Sap oozing in steady streams,
Into High Witch Åy'lla's beaker.

'Dryad, dryad, come
Foundling lost in Mireswamp.
Bless the Father of Lies,
Solitude begone.
Breathe fluid,
This wound I inflict.
Seep, drench, drown me
Beside you this moon I sit'

Seven quarters turned,
Blighted, glazed and dead.
Moon spanned all skies,
While Ajörn lay in a stranger's bed.

Reckoning came,
As sudden as his unfortunate arrival.
Witch and Dryad stirred ,
This night the moon, in denial.

'Stop, please?'
Hungry cackle, a shift of pose.
Needle removed, so gently
Soulsap collected in whole.

Åyll'a's bones, deft, finger blades
Nipping and knotting,
Slipping and sliding,
Silver of her thread, red of his being.

'Now we begin'
Sap and thread entwined.
Needles countless descended,
Pain silencing her whines.

Elder craft, this magick,
Dirge of the deathless.
Blood-bone colour of threads
Weaving over her *******.

Weave, weave, my gentle love
What was two can be one.
Bounds known not to sentient life
Awake once more beyond ****** strife.

Through her skin, by her hand,
His sap she sewed unplanned.
Rivulets and lanes of High Witch blood,
Danced black and dark over skin, bland.

A tiara made flesh,
A finger bound in rings,
Ruby fluid flowed freely
Dancing with it's silver twin.

Moans ensued,
Pursuing now departed cries.
The Ritual of The Weave,
One death from being complete.

Like sawdust, he fell,
Strong disciple Ajörn.
Soul, sap, life taken in turns,
An undead Warlock was born.

Not corporeal, fatally surreal,
An existence wrought in threads
Strung by unearthly hands,
A partner in despair and dread.

Dryad lost,
Witch no more.
Two lives threaded
As one, forevermore.


'I'
'I'
'am'
'am'
Wheezed two voices in unison
'we'
'are'
Chanted the Witchlock in delusion.

Ivy of lies,
Wrapping, shifting;
Hoists him by the throat.
Woodwitch, in glee,
Cackles in delight;
Dangling by the neck, he floats.