I hear her
speak, her
words, fall
through me,
to land
soundly,
on the singing
land that
is my heart,
as she says
the words,
the blessed
words,
"I love you"

I wake, rising, in the dark
of night. I stare, into the
blackness, and listen to the
quiet, and to her breathing,
soft and shallow, there at my
side.

Her face is pale, as I light
the lamp, hanging at my
side, across from her. Her
hair, red, lies stretched, out
across the sheets, thin and
dull, in the flickering glow.

I blow out, the lamp. I lay
down again, softly beside
her. The tears track their
way down the weathered
grooves in my cheeks, and
fall noiselessly, as I lie there,
sleepless, in the night.

The fire blazes, crackles and snaps,
the women dance around its light,
while the men around, in the dark-
ling shadows, beat the drums to the
song of life.

Flutes sigh their trilling songs,
and strings dance and thrum and
blur, as the fiddle plays its wild
abandon, out, into the currents of
the night.

The wild boar is caught and spit,
its dripping fat, the flames do lick,
and now the call to feast and song,
to mead and meat and legend tall,
under the stars and the hunters
moon!

The mountains echo to the
drumbeats call, the forests
ring with their rhythmic fall,
the birds rise into the frost
laden winds, the ground shakes
beneath the call...

When walking the twisting,
winding trails, of the wood
in that time of frost and fire,
I sometimes forget the hours,
and the minutes, and the days,
and wish I could go walking,
till the end of the ways.


I love to see the fire of the
twisted autumn leaves,
left behind in silence, now
all encased in frost.


And yet I love it most of
all, when walking in the
woods, when dawn is finally
breaking, and the night
wind finally stills. I love
to see the tree limbs, and the
twiglings, and the leaves, all
shining in glorious wintry
splendor, for noone, but for me.

I rise, slowly, in the grey morning
light. I raise my eyes, and seeking,
sought; the grey light of dawn,
filters down, between the eaves.

Dressing, clad in the days grey skin,
I step down the covered stairs, soft
as a whisper, born upon the breeze,
for the fear of detection, and the desire
to be gone.

Opening the sighing door, I pause, and
turn, hand still grasping the reluctant
handle, as I see her, beautiful, in her night
gown, her black hair streaming, her eyes,
rimmed with red.

She looks at me, and there is nothing in her
eyes, but sadness, regret, and resignation. She
turns away, and I leave, closing the door
behind me.

I drive to work, sitting behind the wheel,
the grey sky empty, and the black road
full. I look to my right, to my left, and
behind. Everywhere I look, I see the same.
Black suit, grey tie, short-cut hair, and
empty eyes.

I close mine. Open them. The world seems
no different; no change meets my gaze.
only cars and commuters, going forward to
slave.

I look down, up again. My hand reaches, finds
the cold, smooth handle. I raise it. My eyes
close. I think of her, my wife, as the cold end
of the long dull rod touches my temple. A tear
wells slowly in my eye, to fall, softly along my
face. I don't brush it away.

My fingers tremble. They don't know their duty.
My hands shake, as tear follows tear, drifting slowly,
down the lines of my face, careworn, in the line of
pointless duty. My fingers steady, my hands grow still.
It is the breaking point..my mind is blank, as I pull
the trigger...red roses fill my head, as I fall, forward
against the wheel, and the world goes dark.

Rain,
falling softly,
from clouds
the soft sheen
of shimmering pearls,
grey in the dawns
fledgling light,
falls to bring the
breath of life to
the parched soil,
and cleanse the earth,
in its gentle caress,
as it flows on, down,
until at last it ceases;
the clouds break apart,
slowly drifting, away into
the great blue expanse
of the sky, and the sun
breaks through,
in all its shining
glory.