Sunday, 9 January 2011


The grey granite stone, the hills, the valleys, the coastal roads all sunken in me;
trace elements flowing through my veins.
Sometime I hear familial voices in the sounds of the gulls' call;
that's all. Now that I've gone.

Disappeared without trace;
seemingly, says the long, long night.
Not one rooftop mine as raindrops fall in the fading light;
footfalls echo. I am out of sight.

Recognition of image glows;
Reflection before sleep.
Precognition of eternal rest.
Traced, my love, the outline of your face;

but how late. How late.

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