Brian Yule Biography

We do not follow smoothly
glide with grace
gradually accrue
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I turn away, and turning, reach an end
Avert my gaze and stumble to deny
The woken horror of a wayward friend
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I woke in the dawn
I picked the leaves
I plucked the fruit
I hunted the beasts
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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
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