Canescence

Dog chasing fox,
Caught in a headlock
Between igneous rock
And a dry river pass

Saturnine feelings
Fall to your palm:
Snowflakes mounting,
Mandrakes routing,
Meteor showers
Hour by hour
In a green looking-glass.

Dog-chasing foxes,
Sparkling quadrantids;
Fireworks cancelled,
And walks in the park.
Perihelion frost,
Your love is embossed
On my incandscently
Hoary heart.

I was dead to the world
Or rather
The world was dead to me.
Everything else was a case
Of sheer serendipity.

Passerine

To a fetlock’s height on unicorns
One Sunday morning you were born,
Weaned by a mother who hung her best dress
Beneath a seasoned turkey breast.
Snowdrift, westward, soon apart,
No sewing kit stitches a cold broken heart.

A blue tit warbling I once heard
On the crooked, downhill turf;
Later, I could not account to myself
For blood on my fingers,
Five or six feathers in my heart
And other forms of Cubist art;
Blue eye of my needle
Where the downy snow starts,
Returning home,
Her song in my chest,
To an empty bath.