The Rutted Track

She waits at the gate, a raven on her wrist.
A wanton look lurks in her eye,
though her lips have never kissed.

She bids the travellers follow, along the rutted track.
She knows they will not falter
and never once looks back

across the wide flat fields, where crows peck all around.
The sky rides high and silent
and sheaves of wheat lie bound.

She leads them to a cottage and opens wide the door.
The travellers reach to touch her hand,
but then are seen no more.

Slow The Dark Wind Blows

In the field a lone boy stands,
a knot of thunder in each hand.

The cart comes rattling slowly.
Slow the bone cart comes.

Cold lightning clenched behind his eyes,
as in his head the wild geese fly.

The grey horse hobbles slowly.
Slow the old horse groans.

The sky cracks wide, a dance of fire.
His feet root deep into the mire.

The hanging air sways slowly.
Slow as silent stones.

Lost voices twist his bitter tongue
and will not heed the distant drum.

The dry dust rises slowly,
and slow the dark wind blows.

Soon We Will Be Bones

Soon we will be bones.
This robe of flesh will fade away,
no more to dance in forests green,
to taste the kiss of hidden streams,
to wander lost in misted hills,
to suffer fever, loss and ills –
but still walk on

to lie again in languid sun,
to feel the touch of sudden rain,
caress the joy of other’s flesh;
until at last all this is done
and only bones lie quiet, alone.

Waiting For The Rain

We wait for the rain to stop falling.
It came to us just before dawn.
We wait for the first light of morning
and the blackbirds to start up their song.

For here it must always be raining;
the faces that pass pale and long,
as if they all know nothing’s changing
and no-one remembers the sun.

For my dear, we will always be waiting,
now that the storm clouds have gone.
In the courtyards and taverns
we dance with abandon,
then wait for the sweet rain to come.