A Poor Man’s Song

Though fearfully pierced

And beginning that

Never-to-end fall

I sing joyously:

Of hope,

Of love,

Of my lady.

Surely someone, somewhere

has heard of a story

In which the

Head of a queen

Is turned by a

Poor man’s song

And the death of a pawn.

Image result for pawn

The Crocus Road

The small, out-of-history,

Far away lights in these

Big, darkening skies make

Reassuring noises; the shadows

Do not clash and threaten.

The horizon is a pale-line queen

Swooning beneath a ripped-tissue

Curl of early-spring-promise  moon.

The crocus road is longer, much longer

Than I could have expected and I start

To fall towards a gentle, butterfly death.