The breath of dead man winter’s
Swirling vapors of the frozen -
Forging dendrites in the splinters,
Bringing rains, the rivers run.
Along those swollen banks we stroll,
To take account of winter’s toll -
Eviscerated, but his ghostly grip still lingers
In the frost that splits the soil.
Then amongst last season’s damage,
Rustling in decaying twigs,
Are little nests defying carnage,
Writhing in the planting sun.
And there I pause, to which they say,
‘let’s go, so what? ’
Because it’s all so annual,
So unspectacular -
‘But, ’ I ...
The Man Without A Name
Deep within the chasm,
Lives the man without a name -
He’s come to represent
The secrets hidden in -
And so we, do we castigate
Those things not understood,
In culture and in worship,
In ideals and shades of skin