Deep in the heart of the silent backwoods
Heart racing, palms glazed silver with sweat, I walk.
I walk alone.
Feet crunching earth,
The rich, bitter scent of wet moss in October
snakes into my nostrils,
A dark and cautious entity, filling my head with whimsical fancies.
I drink it in, like a beggar nursing his Absinthe
Allowing the night air to probe my nose and mouth.
A twig snaps.
Am I Alone?
But I'm protected by the night, the quiet, charming night,
And now I'm spinning, laughing, drunk on the air!
These backwoods are full of midnight musings, strange faces and all the colors of faerie
Still I walk and the woods are silent.
Neither cricket's whisper nor owl's hoot can penetrate the scream of this total silence
The air shifts, heavy with a slick metallic presence. Goosebumps and a muffled whimper.
I don't mind that I'm not alone.

I would like to walk under the sun, and in the shade where it is cooler,
where the woodland floor isn't all dry leaf anymore,
just purple and blue, waving a little, like a great sea.
To drag my pale white hand in the waters, to bring it out cold and soft as a feather,
and hear a blackbird and a thrush pass the time of day.
To turn down the road and wade into the creek, instead of walking on by,
To look upon the green green face of spring.

Lamplight pools down in dark spaces
And dies between her thighs,
Lips part and quiver,
I whisper "hush"
And quietly,
I smile.

We felt the warm sun on our shoulders,
As we climbed that grassy hill. Clambered
among sweet buttercups, swaying in a hazy september breeze. A pair of lost souls. Sinners.
Far from the kerbside violets we knew once.
The September days were long, as were our formal, tiring, careful sentiments
I didn't tell you then, that to me
You were and would forever be
a thousand rain-soaked day-kisses
A forgotten treasure, like a wild pine scent, a pink tinted perfection
To undress with my eyes
And then with trembling fingers.
To kiss amongst the dandelions and blackberries
You were a fresh fruit, then over ripened.
Started to rot under the sunny affections of various town girls. Wine warming, fire dying, stars disappearing behind pale clouds of hair attached to
a pretty face's empty head.
Now it's just me in my meadow.
The birds picked their fruit from the stem of winter, and the harvest of summer love is over.

There is a land top-filled with woe,
And poorish sorrows that go unseen,
Where candle flames toss o’er the hearth.
And maidens' gentle ******* are torn

By their menfolk’s leave for noble wars.
Threads of grass spangled o’er with dew
Are trodden down by silken slippers,
Bitwixt the dusk and coming morn,
A princess weeps, her heart grief-stricken.

And in the pale and rising dawn,
A flame rolls over the orchard hills,
And blossom falls in bloodied paths
Of Wallach men marching Dragul trails.

As the maidens brush their gentle hair,
The window slits are lit aglow,
And brave menfolk return at last!
The bloodied wars have ended fast,
And Szelyk troops were struck aghast,
Hence no sorrow shall be rooted there.

Landed true their dying blows,
For thought of gentle women near,
The phoenix men felt no wordly fear.
And poorish sorrows go now to grave
Where kisses fall on those not saved.

There is a land now decked with cheer.

I gaze out of the window in the drunken hours -
a battered ford Mondeo looms out of the darkness,
unmoving on the pavement, reassuring and ghost-like.
the crackle of the polish neighbours' cheerful television set
A familiar scene is illuminated by the streetlight's yellow glow.
An ashtray sits on the windowsill of the record shop
lace curtains billow in the night breeze
Red wine in a mug, giggles and faint music
Creaking swings in the city park
and window lights dotted few and far between.
the dirt of my windowbox smells rich and dark
and my wilted sunflowers have closed up for the night.