The fledgling dibble danced
Across warm rocks and road
In front of your castle,
Betwixt the rumbling carriages,
In the late afternoon
And I thought
I heard you call
From Edinburgh
For me to watch over
This jump skipping bit of life
And as this wee bird
Crossed safely over
To your side
And into your gardens,
My thoughts glinted
The miles between us
From Midlothian
And I thought of you
Then whisper soothed
The wind to say:
“Thou newborn Thrush
Singing safe,
Is snug-sequestered
Amongst the tall grasses
And reaching branches
of your Grace."
Albeit the crickets
Still chorused
The day’s dusk,
And said come home -
Shed the heartache
from the husk.
Come home -
Lest the memory
Like a rogue returns
and sits upon the weather vane,
Where once the rooster red
Sat proud upon his throne,
Now has flown, has fled
And from whence
Love's dreams doth sped,
In the War of Roses -
Hearts of White Roses and Red
Onto English Gardens hath bled,
And into the night
Through Kingsmen's woods
We were walking aloft
Upon a metaphor,
Then faster as upon
A galloping steed,
I pressed my heart
One last time
Into the Gaelic mist
And Anglo-Saxon reed,
And braced with Beowulf's mead
And sweetest aqua vitae,
Slipped my hand from yours
And waded into the icy bog,
Never reaching the other side,
And thus freed from mortality
And the longings
Of unrequited love,
Felt Saint Mercy's sword
Atop my pate,
Then swiftly from above.
