Turn back and regard, that which has passed.
A time when the mind could be with the future yet, indignant,
it stays reliving a life apart.
The muslin‑haze of a doubt redundant is swept aside
to draw a sight unwavered,
and the heart unfurls with the rising sun
of Great Summer past, present, and still to come.
The evening beams as a journey continues;
the blue sky’d hope a foil to the decay that is the bequest of profit.
The sight of the graves beckons hope rather than grief,
chill stones as testament to the pilgrim’s faith,
rites on a journey never‑ending.
The cleansing of rainsting, a purge to shackled remembrance,
the lacklustre postures of a character too tempered.
The chapel light, a beacon in the New Town numbness
a single‑cell legacy of a, once encompassing, certainty.
Bud, like branch
as if small, or gone far,
to what might you bloom?
A rose prim, or buxom?
A spearing new-minted finial fine
in green iron cast, your tender tendril
to wind against wind
up railing, perhaps,
or soil-grounded for brick’s brace
in your bed, instead.
My reliable dancers
trot me from cobble to flag
nimble, now, from flinty heart
now purposeful to paved-in paths
in deferent courtesy – leave
histories’ halls behind
to melancholic ponder at seat
to crow-caw chorusing
calm, now chilled
Gliding in my dreams
only you can hear,
only your eyes are unclosed
to my sighing blush,
in the lakes of your gilded gaze.
In the gossamer Grace
in which I dote,
breathe your name, Angel,
I shall love you
all my life