Richbourgh

The sun strikes noon through the elms
and we repose beneath their parasol,
chewing reverend silence with our back teeth
daisies clutched, salting a boulder with our hides,
one small enough to conquer but colossal
enough that our toes blow raspberries
at the thirsting milkweed below.

As much boulders as we were explorers,
chunked quartz and lime measures
for a requiem for a simpler time
when broad men cobbled fortune, 
drifting in any direction they chose 
and reinventing themselves.
Cyprus could be wrenched by the roots
and stamped anywhere, their leaves
no less stiff, blood and sweat no less
fertile even when imbibed by arid chalk.
One plus one equaled two for but an instant,
men were disposable, women were grainy
and structures were temporally eternal.

Before us, the wind taps cat tails in Introitus,
Kyrie whistles through doors never dreamt of,
the Agnus Dei grazes upon the broad grass
rolling out of trenches which now contain
rather than repel, only the frame remains.
From our perch, we let our petals scatter 
in remembrance of a time which bore us and wilted,
our candle lit across the pebbled Earth.

Lament

There is no need to feign interest in my deep
lines, pétillant personality exposed by several
millenniums nor in my particular position,
rebelliously pitched amongst the clover and 
crabgrass, stoically standing guard before 
chain links stretched for no one’s convenience.
You didn’t trek all the way from Heliopolis,
Athens or whatever the place to be is these days
to point your back towards my acrobatic neighbors.
You’re only looking at me now out of obligation,
the tales of this place have grown tails that take
hours to work through, so you find yourself savoring
that moment which you’ve planned and saved for 
over a decade while staring at the triple XL cherry
poncho draped across a loquacious woman from Virginia
or pretending not to be annoyed by your three year
old’s constant need to water the English countryside,
whether or not it needs it. 
Stones included.