The Dark

In the end, it was nothing more than the toy boat of a boy on the local park’s lake,

Now only words in a rhyme, no more than a name on a stone, and that well overgrown –

The heron’s the look of the river. The moon’s the look of the night. The sky’s the look of forever. Snow is the look of white.

If I was dead, and my bones adrift like dropped oars in the deep, turning earth;

Every summer, I visit the Scottish Prince at his castle high on a hill outside Crieff. We dine on haggis and tatties and neeps – I drink water with mine and the Prince sips

One with a broken heart to weep sad buckets. Two with four blue eyes

You like safe sounds: the dogs lapping at their bowls; the pop of a cork on a bottle of plonk as your mother cooks;

A clip of thinder ever the reeftips sends like a bimb going iff! My hurt thimps in my chist.