Friday, October 31, 2008















My breath is white.
It’s wintertime:
more than weather
it’s the ghost of hunger,
small sounds in the night,
a strangling of light.

I walk through haar,
through the town’s cobbled crust,
past smeared shadow,
mirrors in green glass. As I go,
halos of lamp turn to will o’ wisp,
neon to bone fire.

Moon cracks cloud
and the clock face freezes.
I burrow in a guise
no wraith will recognise,
professional, of Dumfries,
out for an hour.

In my Apple-land
they quietly wait,
souls lost, souls gained,
finger tips on window panes.
I raise a glass to Hecate,
drink, ab ovo usque mala.




Ab Ovo Usque Mala- from the egg to the apple, from birth to death, the circular path.

5 comments:

hope said...

What a great way to start my Halloween morning! :)

Love the photo and "Moon cracks cloud and the clock face freezes." What a great line!

May your journey into the night be fruitful, even if the fruit comes in a glass. ;)

shug said...

cheers me dear and may all your pumpkins be juicy ones.

the broken down barman said...

NO BAD BIG MAN. STILL THINK POEMS ARE FUR THE BIRDS THO

Sorlil said...

I particularly like the last two stanzas, very nice on the ear.

Frances said...

Fabulous images in this. I love 'neon to bone fire' for its half rhyme and the idea of the streets turning to something otherworldly as the narrator passes.