Pew

I walked through the park, past the bench
where under cover of night’s veil
we met and made love in the autumnal air
and those old paths we trod, hand in hand

I passed by the trees where once we stopped
to kiss and smile and speak of love
and the shine of your eyes matched
the cloudless skies

I ambled on the trails, by creek and field
where we bared our naked souls
in fated bond and open heart
with soaring devotion held in your thrall

I sat for a while, soft weeping in vision
on that bench now snow covered cold
thought of your hand in mine under sky dome
tenderness of spirit and enchantment

I rise to stare vacant into snowfall cloud
mind humming in bittersweet memory
in tragic step advance my path
eyes glazed with salted drops fall silent

Imprint

There are indications of you
etched forever in my heart
and while Mr. Cohen says – my favourite bard –
that true love leaves no traces, I think, in this case
he was wrong
they show like ripples in a pond, or water-lapped sand on the shore
now made to stone by time and so much erroneous distance
I speak your name to the wind
let it carry and wonder if you hear that appeal
and overture to what follows, an imprecation of a touch
Mr. Cohen says that the mist leaves no scar
on the green hill
but he was wrong
scars tattoo my body in patterns and lines
some of them are yours
carved in memory and unwavering blade
your head on my chest and my hand in your hair
those too have left indelible impressions
in the tar pit that I call myself
singing with my incorporeal voice
soft ‘gainst the frailties of fate
True love leaves traces
Traces
Traces

The Haunting

There are rumours of haunted
houses and woods, buildings and groves
but it’s not quite true, not of places
We are the haunted, the bedeviled, the besieged
I’m walking my ghosts now
watching them watching me with
malice or compassion, spite or sadness
they speak in voices and tongues that
none can translate or hear
ghosts of past sins, and of future ones
seeking absolution I cannot give them
though my sacrifice is ready
as some burnt altar offering
I am no priest with redemption at hand
no shaman or seer with sacred visions
I have only this disquiet, this pallor of appalling
verisimilitude
as if I were somehow more real
than them