There is no shelter in this emerald  isle.
We are authors of our own hastening,
shunning simplicity and  the covert.
Fear is now permeable
its utterance  loitering like a well worn thread
turmoill  thickens livid  eyes
translating  further woe.

It's late in the day
standing by, Awareness drifts by
like stones carried in shoes.
Comments too few, to carry conviction
walks in sand  like a neon thought,
relics of crystallised leaves parade
an eerie silence that dealt time.
Only fortuitous believers became others
that sleep ordinary in this path.

The d'oeuvres are no longer being served,
and the spaghetti' with clam sauce
not so fetching,
over my white tuxedo.
The service is  inexplicably hurrying  
at the Cafe Rouge;
this gushing turnaround,
but with a  Gewurztraminer in the waiting,
has somehow has moved  me,
more than the curt  waitress Jeanne,
thankfully her imaginary grudges receding.

Shadows over  the moon -
sickles jangle towards  my feet.
Even too  much  glue cannot  be  washed away.
Profuse,  there’s  no coolness,
when the  wicker  Woman has  shorn  you
of  your  inner  sense.
Even her  poetry  was  mercurial
and  the worst is
the fallout  is  inevitable.

Had anyone heard of her accidentally?
elsewhere there's no trace.
I saw this paradigm of time drift by.  
Leastways Nikon F / Nikkor lens
ER Ektachrome caught her beauty;
never  flighty  Lavinia  Stone:
1/125  F5.6  stood her evergreen.  
Grained figurine, patient as light.
Portraiture from heavens sense,
cloudy drizzle
times eminent on blue rays.

The cold dash in October
could break your ankle,
on some twig strewn iced river,
gusted by this uneasy Bravado.
And through this
we form a common bond
the strewn and promiser will led their merry dance.

It is better to shut your eyes and see again
and undream.
So rollick in the  dew,
the  resplendent  Samphires will regrow.
For were we not pre destined
to edge towards the tidal  marshes
and with dugout boats
voyage through the satisfied.
Tempus fugit awaits
to enrapture  our intricacies.

Roses of consternation cry
as the lambs  are driven.
Is steadfast an exit or a cry for help?
Sometimes being crashed, bottoms out
and strife as a personal  armament;
merely becomes another structure.