—for Síneánn

We drove to a lost, lonely isle,
And where, if only once to find
Ourselves sown again, belonging
Wholly to the keep of faraway strands
That hours tided us in beads and wave,
The nascent sea whispering aloft and birds
Cascading as we flew, to sail under moving
And hoary dunes with stellar eyes of poppies
Wild, such breathtaking strides for we to make
And the sun set dripping and lowly swept ashore
Away to us on breaths of gentle crests breaking,
We spoke sundry nothings, as if to know things
So simple are to be kept wanting nor ever said,
The lonely, dull star of day fell sleepy, dimmed
By sparks, the shimmer to our eyes—

                                                               So clear,
Shall be the hills of the fair isle to us, will always
Remain caste with new lamb and crowned deer,
By thorn and thistle and rimmed with broken shells
Rung on marbled beach, singular, before innocence
And grace, by skip ****** lovers cradled in only sky
To be joined, with the lined hands of long night stars,
Finally reaching in the jeweled glass by the running
Grains polished, a gild castle moat, stained into ocean
Salt, always by the sea of windows glory and joys given
To each, ever to be ****** upon the high tunes eternal,
Beside the stations of grass and drifted heartwoods,
Among wings by the slip of tides, ripped monumental;

Till when we drove away, this time, in a carriage stall
And all the tumbles of sand into eyes crumbled to end,
We drove ourselves back to riven sleep, a stark beyond
The fallen wayfare columns of momentary paths, we cut
Home, trudging through the garden forests and inlet
Bays on serpentine road, always ever to cross—
A bridge of sighs.

Our time flicked with drops of summer,
The numberless nodes, mellow cicadas,
Pixelated a world swirling of music—
All dates, sweet tabulations of primes,

The savours swelling in fragrant breeze,
The still waters of pond mist and flame,
How your eyes, with mine, gazed into—
O sleepy windows of eyes being born,

Flowers made a bed and we drank it all,
The light of the sun as it passed in grace
And the birds sang songs of remembrance,
Water fell but once from mothering skies,

Wind whined, such days could never last,
One flesh of burgeoning— moon in the grass.

Cool room, most steamy,
I wait with heated towels,
  .  .  .  Her bath almost done.

Younglings got ******* up,
Love, antiquated notions,
  .  .  .  Mobile devices.

Late salutations  .  .  .
Old autumn guests come and go,
  .  .  .  Still leaves on the porch.

Her eyes were cold sun,
Red hair shouts our love undone,
Maple leaves falling  .  .  .

My story ends of sparkle,
Hands, winding me in fable
The dark lines of her lashing eyes
Are burning rings, shear ice,
Covering the lost ponds of spring,
To see her in the ripening fields
Is to know the myriad colours
Of flowers, wild with loneliness,
She is always numbering the days,
Always on parade, hair, with out end,
Tresses trailing the wind.

In cool light of heavy air,
The lovers worked at song,
Whittling the oak as it grew,
Wrapping time in knot, a gear
By the rounded dial of a snail,
Even the sun waltzed forgetful
And antique moon soon forgot
What it knew under wink of stars,
The field was all in hushed flame
As the new ant trails always were,
Saying in the grass that May, windy,
Is all we can know ever beneath trees
As they burst from breaking blue earth,
Will always, grasping, be this evergreen,
The lovers became here truly, new witness,
To themselves never more, but only this once,
Eternal, fresh, undivided, jewels of sun, divine.

After autumn storm  .  .  .
Red and golden leaves threaded,
  .  .  .  Floating on sun pond.

Day flowers open  .  .  .
At night close into themselves,
  .  .  .  As my heart remains.

If I said I want you,
Would you run and tell the stars
To close their eyes and ring dry
The clouds of tears?

If I said let me hold you,
Would the earth crack open,
To shudder the rolling lands,
Not cradle the hatching seeds?

If I said I am yours,
Would your name soon dissolve
And be lost in the revolving
Night that candles you in light?

If I heard your voice,
In twining dream and woke
Beside you talking in your sleep
What would your question be?

If I called your name,
Before the first sunning year
And heard you, Echo in the wind,
Would time guide us to the door?

Little tawny buds  .  .  .
After winter spring sparkles,
  .  .  .  Freckles on her face.