.
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.
.

(Sonnet)

What length are days so dearly trodden,
Riddled in stocks, museums of mind,
How can one soul with heart commend
And play these martial fields unkind?
We are wages cast about four corners
And spun to globe of coordinates web,
Sailing by moon, lit oceans of scorn,
Rudderless, blind— innocently led,
Yet here, one star, the sun is a beacon,
We are bathed each day in ****** light
And gifted to morn with new beginnings,
From dreams we wake with newborn sight        
And gods watch over with stellar eyes,
We are babes knowing— cradled in sky.
.

.
Because she could not see—
Song in flower, light in lovers abed,
Dream unfolding as we touched,
Because her great beauty was gifted
It was unfelt, undeserved, shunned,
Making her even more irresistible.

Because I could not hold on to self,
Beside such dream, lost to my hands
As prints clutched into the ruin dark
Of her indifference, I made peace
With subjugation and humilities riven
Out of soul and flesh and hollow being.

Because we were unknowing, each
A foil unto ourselves as we cried—
This then was daymare riding in sun,
Twin delusions in oft reign of blood,
O what stories we both shall die to tell,
How the itch of desire scratches bare
Whole psyche as it writhes in a shell.
.

.
So, love began as it had— always been,
Stars exploding beyond the rays of gold,
Younglings new, born of bode and wonder,
The dearest waves, lept on forgotten time,
Among the furrowed hope of fields we grew,
Days sprung from long vines, handy grapes
Croft with sparkle in the bloomy meadows,
Hands knotted with clear, open eyes and all
The afternoons of spring rejoining, pebbles,
Divining from the told tale of forks in the hills
And reaching to loamy shores of lost ponds
For now, to be on at last warmly and grassy,
Dials of sun and summer cleansing showers
Under the peaceful wake, the never sleeping
Pines, yes and then we were highly held aloft
In the loom and yarns of green steps, storied
By forest upon shires, sandy uncovered eyes,
Happily, lost in the woods of lamb white days.
.

(Villanelle)

If only she would die with me—
Lying a bed on a sheet of stars,
Out of mere dark, our light set free,

Our leaves to hold in rings of tree,
Hair entwined in ocean days hour,
If only she would die with me—

In the forest fern to rest, wake curly,
We would nest in that place so far,
Out of mere dark, our light set free,

To ever notch a simple tapestry,
Colours even sun could not mar,
If only she would die with me—

In this morning all spark wants to be,
What our bodies are joined in marking,
Out of mere dark, our light set free,

We two have eyes blistering to see
And winds that tail the song of larks,
If only she would die with me—
Out of mere dark, dear light set free.
.

.
Still pale grey earth is turned,
Deep is the loam moisted,
Lone by the Ploughman.

The rows of the brushed patches,
Sweating the breakneck blood,
Are painted by labours.

Messiah doors out cathedral,
With iron plod anoints the soil,
Exposed unto mercy sun.

His hands are knobbed in stone,
His eyes searing of the star,
His face dark as deep loam.

Each day ablutions of sod earth,
Heaved out tilling unfree wills,
Burdens of harnessed beast.

Dark is the turned loam moisted,
Water flame heat of veined mist,
Seeds sown explode to bloom.

After thorny works, crowned blood,
Sun leaves to wine red fruition,
Ploughman maker is done.
.