The breath made you glad
the believability of feeling closer
as a stone I could never sink
you would be the ballast, the anchor,
the celestial guide
the giver.

Scheiuw  you'll never know
the beauty of her beads
her gentle Aegean eyes
bluer than azure.
In her tears there's regret for
the alpha bet
for those who swooned
too low,
who came un-courtly after
the legends.

A blush of rouge in July
the sway of Lady's fingers
who do you otherwise spurn,
are there any more wishes
you could christen
over and beyond the neck of mountains,
you had your flings -
entertaining gapes
mustering mouths,
spreadeagle
shinning with the fields
a touche of July

There's nothing I can hold against you,
there's almost a sternness in your voice
strengthening your steadfastness,
your eyes if they wished could rail
against light travellers.
Your own Mother who you asundered,
to supple perpetual altercation.
Dark, dark your hair will seek accord
The Ocra fields were you played
casts forth a margin of your secrets.
I pray our grave court
blinded by your  wonders,
serpentine and whistles
at the stroke of midnight,
whose union will shed
the growing embers

There is nothing more than composing
sonnets  and blank verse,
like Larkin and Heaney never willingly leaving home,
seeing character and landscape grow:
no television, by view of partition
a barbed wire sandwich
a calculated drip feed reaction.

There's a fork in the road
by the Magnolia tree
where there"s a pack of complete  Pokeman cards,
buried deep in cellophane
but next to it, are shards of unknown shin bone,
who wants to be alone?
at night with a twenty year old scooter
covered in rancid buck skin ?
I thought not.

Your smile unfurls
steadfast in Northern harmonies,
the merited  determination
patient as a breath.
The Oars swirled past,
their energy awoken
to be wooed by the wistful
under the momentariness Moon.