Brian Yule

We do not follow smoothly
glide with grace
gradually accrue
...

I turn away, and turning, reach an end
Avert my gaze and stumble to deny
The woken horror of a wayward friend
...

...

I woke in the dawn
I picked the leaves
I plucked the fruit
I hunted the beasts
...

She dared sketch symphonies in the winterdark dawn
Faint snatches of melody yet not fully formed
I felt her dignity; frail but unbending
Broken bursts of half-sensed hope; expanding, still pending
...

and there - amidst the clutter - a tiny keepsake lay
cobwebbed with the lapse of time
Long years collapse away
into a moment
...