Bygones with wine
in a barrage of time
is how I see what
came before.

Electric and proud,
the blue, sunken shroud
that carried you to me;
to this crumbling shore.

Clouded islands
float overhead
distilled to a fine mist;
watertight and keening.

Walk and talk
to the moon and back,
it is always this place;
always this feeling.


Wonder at what may;
who knows the day,
eye-patched and gay?

A solar target through sail and wood
for good we warble at just me.
Sweet wine to keep the gums wet.

A northern beacon,
true to form,
dances, though this time not alone.


How to lay your head in public
when it is cold
and the damp is rising.

That thunder belongs
to all of us;
like poles, we lurk and hum.

Double-time there is only
music; duetted and distilled
but still the damp is rising.