Solstice stirs my Druid roots.
Those roots entangle with my dreams.
A language, strange and musical,
celebrates the world unseen.

The druids issue from the grove,
solemn in their robes of white.
The doors of time are open wide
on this, the long year’s shortest night.

Ovates divine and bards will speak,
Singing in the Cambric tongue,
The Druid raises arms on high
to praise the power of the Sun.

She lies upon the altar stone.
The victim of the gods’ caprice
Sunlight pours between the stones
where blood was shed and breath has ceased.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Leitch.  Have you had a busy day?”

     Grey eyes peered over wireframe spectacles and gazed upon a vision that lifted the corners of his mouth.  “Yes, quite.  Thank you for asking.  So lovely to see you again, my dear.”

     As she entered the tailor’s shop and lithely traced her fingers across yards of brightly colored silk, and muted finely woven wool, her companion quietly assembled outside the entrance door.  He had selected a prime location adjacent to the neighboring baker’s store.  At that hour, the wafting mixed aromas of warm cookies, cakes, baguettes and shepherd’s bread would lure workers of the day from their homeward paths for just a bit of something to fill their evening meals, or add a little nuance to the setting of the sun.

     “And you as well, kind Sir.  I do adore observing the mastery in the magic of your finery.”

     “Well now, what a lovely thing to say.  And I adore listening to you as well.  But no more of that ‘Sir’ business.  You must call me ‘Arthur,’ as I have said before.”

     “Ah, then no more of that ‘dear’ business.  You must call me ‘Kathy,’ and we shall both listen to more lovely sounds that will soon fill this room.”

     At that moment, when the tailor’s eyes began to sparkle, Kathy’s companion began to strum a well-seasoned lute as he sang a refrain from an old Yorkshire ballad:

          Are you going to Scarborough Fair?
          Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
          Remember me to one who lives there
          For once she was a true love of mine

Then slowly, a crowd began to gather, one-by-one and in twos and threes, of those emerging from the bakery or simply passing by, as lamplights began to glow against the evening sky.    

          Tell her to make me a cambric shirt
          Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
          Without a seam or needlework
          Then she shall be a true love of mine

Entwined within the strumming, individual notes came alive and danced their way across the frets and fingerboard to leap and float about the crowd.  In time with the rhythm and the melody, pence and schillings soon found their way into the instrument’s open case, sounding light percussive accompaniment and applause.

     And then as though entranced, Kathy twirled about the tailor’s shop and took the tailor’s hand, to lead him out into the square and join the merry band.  She smiled a wondrous look, with eyes closed to the scene around her, as she gazed upon the vision within her, and her sweet voice shared its verse:

          Tell him to find me an acre of land
          Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
          Between the salt water and the sea sand
          Then he shall be a true love of mine

Then Kathy gave a laugh or two, and raised her arms to the incandescent night, as a blackbird perched itself atop the crescent moon, resting in the palms of her hands.

foam floral caps, work of wet hydrangea,        

                          or pulse of caucasian lilacs in a sky-relieved frieze.        

                                   cambric pennons swag reconsidering      

                                          margins of wimpling burn,      

                                        wherein the stars…twiring stars,    

                                    the declining stars, moon and planets        

                                                            tur­ned--



                                      purchase light with morning-hands:        

                                         ­         green-bedizened;      

                                              amber trammeling bud.      

                                          absolve qualm suffusing tyre,      

                                             violet’s violent leniency--        

                                            a­nd feel, o’bask! in velvet      

                                                   ­ flume of veins,        

                                          as beams of conspiracy raise      

                                                  to­ post and lintel,      

                                         crutching a young god’s legs--



                                      and feel, o’supplicate!  bathe in      

                                                day’s anatomies,      

                                   til greave deposit in lacunary sleeves,    

                                   and a genuflecting sun bow eternally--

717

The Beggar Lad—dies early—
It’s Somewhat in the Cold—
And Somewhat in the Trudging feet—
And haply, in the World—

The Cruel—smiling—bowing World—
That took its Cambric Way—
Nor heard the timid cry for “Bread”—
“Sweet Lady—Charity”—

Among Redeemed Children
If Trudging feet may stand
The Barefoot time forgotten—so—
The Sleet—the bitter Wind—

The Childish Hands that teased for Pence
Lifted adoring—them—
To Him whom never Ragged—Coat
Did supplicate in vain—

i

Animater I'm anhungered
Anigh to thy brunette canvas
Thou art a calliope to mine ****'s
A second pulse of mine calotype Atlantis.

ii

In Corinth, wherein mine greecian ancestor's do cometh
A cambric carriage with thy grisette dress
Me to be the poetic ******
Thou to be mine Spaniard address.

iii

We'll gad like frat-house student's
Learning lessons, not by ruling stick's
Footing the hills, of forane real
We both shalt be an epilogue, romanticism's epilogist's.


©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Elsa-angelica dedication

It's cloudy weather
Weather like London weather
Like the fog that hides
The villains of Sherlock Holmes
In the mist of the clouds
Yeah that weather.
And I write this,
With headphones in my ears
But no music
Listening to a teacher
Mutter like a mosquito
Insignificant
For now
She says she wants to read books
And all I want to do is curl up by a fire
With a flannel blanket
And a cup of cambric
And write

I strode into a bar one night
Stumbled actually into the dim light
At the sight of a lady
With a stellar gown made of dark fabric
With her hair so brown, it could have been fawn
I don't remember the details now
I don't even wear that cambric tunic
The night had slowly faded into a hushed dawn
With the drinks and chaotic murmurs turning to yawn
Like sunshine on flowers through a canopy
Our eyes met instantly
As the bar emptied
We got along well, I thought too myself
Under the stars and constellations, we spoke
Churning stories under the starlight, gaily
Of things which to this day have passed
Five years had passed
The serendipity struck me blind
"I am not capable of love."
"You aren't. But you will be."
She had the raw optimism of a child

I was still playing with my life
Under the serenity of the night sky
I realized a lot
In that short time
I was sure of someone
For once in my life

Then, I looked around the bar
She was still twiddling her thumbs
My heart beat twice as I looked at the shore
I wanted to say something
Looking through the window pane
The boats were docked, rocking on the waves
They were nestled near the pier on the high tide
This conversation was sailing smoothly
I needed a plan!
I had a plan
At least, I thought I had a plan
Yet I was tied to a feeling, there was some stillness
It smelled like beer, but, I could taste the fear
I couldn't ask her out
Or could I?

I decided to walk out of the tavern that night
I admit, I was a little lost and alone
Best choice I had made in a long time, right?
Suddenly, the door flew open
She ran up to me
The air was clear, her face lit up in the dead dark
I said a whole sentence, but, the wild wind hid the stupid remark
She blurted out, "I have never felt so alive."
I wish we meet again
Because I need that raw optimism again
Now I think too much, feeling too little

The boy with the soulless eyes
Never dies
Even if he tries
Finding fresh air
In a blue cambric
Made by nuns in their tunics
Is a fickle thing
You're the soul of the occult, they said giggling