In an Edinburgh square, pale frosty dawn,
my collar upturned to ward off the sleet
a-pattering on the grey stony lawn
of slate flagstones and cobblestone streets.

I see a creature of myth that flies a flag:
The unicorn wields a white cross
and spites iron clouds of sullen ****:
Her golden horn gleams in the dross

of short winter days of sickly suns.
As daybreak crawls out slowly from grey
and fog’s misty veil turns light to dun,
I long for a glimpse of sun’s gilded rays.

This Scottish sunrise sends its weak beams
of wan threads of silver to kiss the gold
which sheathes the unicorn’s horn and gleams:
Her white coat shimmers in summers foretold.

Her sunbright horn pierces the pall
of grim grey winter’s grip on my heart —
In this moment her lightness enthralls,
her horn a flame that freedom imparts.

Waves in handmade glass
in old peeling wooden panes —
Ripples on the pond.

From the leaden sky
descends a dark winged lady —
Black sunbeams dawning.

Reddened night replies
and locks her blackened aerie —
Hunter’s moon is rising.

Morning herald cries
to summon sunburst faeries —
Sparks rise a-flaming.

Goddess of harvests
calls out from wheat fields waving —
Heavy clouds marching

Like the moon
     you pull me towards
         but too soon
  you push me away.
We never touch, but
      -like ebb and flow-
         I am forever entangled with you.

A-walking in a cobbled street,
I breathe the brittle winter air,
the crunch of frost beneath my feet.
The early hour’s sunbeams flare.
Arising in the ice-blue sky
three stone church towers stand and wait.
Their spires point to the most high
as morning sunlight splashes paint
across their well-worn windswept face.
These turrets of a sacred keep
stand silent witness, each stone traced
by time’s sharp fingers etching deep:
I hear each crack and crevice sing
a murmured prayer for us to stand
and listen to the brass bells ring
over sunlit frosted land.

A Christmas market, icy cold
where crafts are made both bright and bold.
A spinner lady fills my sight
beside her steaming *** of light.
She spins and dyes her woolen yarn —
and thinks of his spun tales and yarns
that wove her into stitches of laughs
to knit them in the cable craft.
The threads of her past joys now flow
into the yarn that she makes glow.