November Air
Blairlogie, Scotland
Peat smoke rises,
And like sweet magnolia swag
This native incense hangs
Over muddy, traipsing paths
And stucco foothill houses that sit unbothered by the wind,
No shadows moving in the windows
A copper kettle glows within.
It hangs over plump, pretentious sheep
Who gnaw and trample sprouting thatches
And turn their backs to passing strangers
Who step too near their emerald patches.
It hangs over shaggy, ginger cows
Who breathe hot and hefty clouds from their glossy, chestnut noses
And lay their beastly heads
Down in the grass in quiet poses.
Blairlogie, Scotland
Peat smoke rises,
And like sweet magnolia swag
This native incense hangs
Over muddy, traipsing paths
And stucco foothill houses that sit unbothered by the wind,
No shadows moving in the windows
A copper kettle glows within.
It hangs over plump, pretentious sheep
Who gnaw and trample sprouting thatches
And turn their backs to passing strangers
Who step too near their emerald patches.
It hangs over shaggy, ginger cows
Who breathe hot and hefty clouds from their glossy, chestnut noses
And lay their beastly heads
Down in the grass in quiet poses.
The Birch Trees
You three sisters sit in a copse beside the loch
Exposing your peachy skin to nipping wind and November frost,
Summer is gone and with it the days
When you girls played coy beneath parasols of jade,
Now your silver bark peels to reveal fresh, nubile flesh,
Your bare winter wardrobe, your holiday best.
Your tawny leaves lie on the floor
With red grouse feathers and moss
Draping across those lucky, dew-covered rocks,
The crows gawk with glassy eyes and caw at your woody thighs,
(You know you look good, you know that they watch)
As you stand in the nude amongst your fallen frocks.
You three sisters sit in a copse beside the loch
Exposing your peachy skin to nipping wind and November frost,
Summer is gone and with it the days
When you girls played coy beneath parasols of jade,
Now your silver bark peels to reveal fresh, nubile flesh,
Your bare winter wardrobe, your holiday best.
Your tawny leaves lie on the floor
With red grouse feathers and moss
Draping across those lucky, dew-covered rocks,
The crows gawk with glassy eyes and caw at your woody thighs,
(You know you look good, you know that they watch)
As you stand in the nude amongst your fallen frocks.
Saturation
Buzz-cut hills
In electric green,
Shaving the bottoms off of charcoal clouds
Hovering low in the sky
Deep, deep blue
Shadows like lapis lazuli
Scarabs on Pharaoh’s tomb,
Punch the purple heather
And rub against the rusty pines
Citric orange and yellow leaves,
A throbbing notice,
“Don’t go in!”
Or do, this radiation does no harm
Buzz-cut hills
In electric green,
Shaving the bottoms off of charcoal clouds
Hovering low in the sky
Deep, deep blue
Shadows like lapis lazuli
Scarabs on Pharaoh’s tomb,
Punch the purple heather
And rub against the rusty pines
Citric orange and yellow leaves,
A throbbing notice,
“Don’t go in!”
Or do, this radiation does no harm
Deth Mask of Mary Queen of Scots
She glid like blude across the scaffald,
Her silkin dress a ruby drop upoune the blok.
She knelt on lynnyn claith
An’ mouthed her Latine prayer
As her lady tyed a curch around her eyn.
The axe fell thre tymes
‘Fore she faded,
A blak gluve rieved her auburn hayr,
An’ lyftyt her heid
As the Frencheman harled her gowne away.
The waxe was brung,
It slid doun her stil-wairm skin,
An’ hardened on her sinking cheek.
A plaister on her mortall wund,
A cast of a character bygane.
Now she sits in schadow on the skelf
At Lennoxlove Hous, gaitherin’ dust.
She glid like blude across the scaffald,
Her silkin dress a ruby drop upoune the blok.
She knelt on lynnyn claith
An’ mouthed her Latine prayer
As her lady tyed a curch around her eyn.
The axe fell thre tymes
‘Fore she faded,
A blak gluve rieved her auburn hayr,
An’ lyftyt her heid
As the Frencheman harled her gowne away.
The waxe was brung,
It slid doun her stil-wairm skin,
An’ hardened on her sinking cheek.
A plaister on her mortall wund,
A cast of a character bygane.
Now she sits in schadow on the skelf
At Lennoxlove Hous, gaitherin’ dust.
Caledonia
Liquid swans strum
Vibrating strings across the loch,
Brassy leaves harmonize
With velvet hills of evergreens,
Highland mists hum
Like quiet lips in the abbey,
Caledonia, the autumn is your opus.
Liquid swans strum
Vibrating strings across the loch,
Brassy leaves harmonize
With velvet hills of evergreens,
Highland mists hum
Like quiet lips in the abbey,
Caledonia, the autumn is your opus.
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