A Cemetery in Castle Combe

We wander through a graveyard near the church,

Where only leaves assemble on the mounds,

And ivy finds salvation beside tombs.

Two grosbeaks forage insects by the grounds.

Faint epitaphs are difficult to read,

Worn birth and death dates mark the vanished pride

Of men who lived one hundred years ago.

On random plots we make a bona fide

Endeavor to decipher phantom words.

Why do we care?  These ancient souls are not

Our dead.  Yet, threads of curiosity

Have drawn us to this wild, forsaken lot

Where lichen spreads its solace, like a mother,

Obscuring names of father, child, or brother.

An Expatriate’s Message

Remember me to homeland winter skies,

where dusk sifts purple ribbons through the leaves

around the linnets huddled in the limbs

of sycamores. Remember me to seas

and fishing villages between the bluffs,

cathedral bells and heather on the moor.

Recite my name when mallards pass

beneath the bridge, and kindly reassure

the harebells they are missed. To thistle and

valerian, reveal my sad regret.

The California sun has bound me with

a spell—I cannot tolerate the wet.



Flatscreened

She had a dream her husband came to chat;

He floated by the closet near the bed,

Remarking how his clothes and favorite hat

No longer occupied the shelves. She said:

I didn’t know that you were coming back!

He slipped down through the hallway, searched the place

Where all his books were kept, there was no stack—

A deep frown etched its way across his face.

Inside the living room he turned bright red,

A flat screen on the wall ensnared his eyes.

You’re in the money now that I am dead!

At that, she sweetly whispered her good bye:

I’ve loved the chance to see you once again

Now please be good and go back where you’ve been.

Christmas Needlepoint

Here comes the season, strung with thoughts of you.

Low grass-laced hills crisscross in winter white,

dark threads of cloud stretch sugar-plum and blue

along a canvas sky of fraying light.

The frost arranges crystals on a limb.

Flakes, falling, reappear as snow on snow

like French knots sewn above the tree root's rim,

that stencil little patterns, to and fro.

The frozen oak is filled with mistletoe,

its spheres of filigree hang from each bough,

to offer fruit for robin, thrush, and crow.

It makes me think of emptiness, somehow—

reminds me of a summer field of yarrow,

and everything that bloomed before the chill.

December brings a tapestry of sorrow,

with knots pulled through a surface of goodwill.