Corrig Wood by Ghost of the Pine
I enter the woods again
Into wasp and bee
And hanging web
Through these woods
Colour’s leak and spill
Sun cracks the dark holds
Of nights hallowed fill
Without fear or grief
The forest stir has reason
Blooming flower and green of leaf
The pulsing heart of season
Hill’s walking rise
Through fog dusted colonnade
I can see a horseman stride
Irving’s tale a facade
Id conjure in mind’s eye
Dullahan and Ichabod
I remember hiding in
Young brisk summers
Autumns Adoring fall
Winters cold breath of slumber
Springs bells silent call
Flowing down it soothes
this trickling path
meandering like the river’s way
neath the summit
where Aves frequent
their penthouse
throughout the day
The Fly is Cast by Ghost of the Pine
The fly is cast, majestic wing
Swift incision, revealed in air
Elegant and Slung equestrian
Upon phantom Percheron
A Subtle Touch, palming on liquid hush
Above oak smoked veneer
Hearts feathered flutter
forecasting fighting weather
Bellissima, lake sculpture I Protrude.
Librarian silence on imposters allure
Evocative, the big scene of typhoon
Nautilus’ patient debut
“Pounding surge”!
Breaking surface seal
Thrusting vigour now
Taut line and snapping reel
Throes Ensnared by
Haul and heave and pounce
Walking hands climbing down
Focus on reaping harrow
Its gentle hold March’ age Aquarian
The catch rich, A rainbow
From Sunkist ambient dwelling
Relinquished from its realm it yearns
but now as in Death, it cannot return.
Our Tidal Island by Ghost of the Pine
Witching is the hour
Watching in the dark
She returns, sleek in shade,
Late, in shadowed Suede
There is hail, waves
Schooners in the haze
Theatre walled window chill.
Street night peaks
Between the sails
We find us neath sheets
Warm yearning gaze
Defending our bounty
Craving Black night
Lapping motion
Whispering candlelight
Fingers on skin
Hot flushing breath
I love her in shadows
Moving
On Our Tidal Island.
