I went to cry where the 
poets have before, 

over a love 
that lived ever after only 
in fabled folklore.

Waited for tears to at last 
drop for my muse long lost-

the final silver owed 
to pay playing the 
fool's due cost-

from scrambled peaks to wind 
down as they overflow

the lakes laying 
in still beauty 
ere rippling below,

so could late bury grief amid
a castle's rigged circle of stones, 

that before steeped to 
be borne deep 
in wearied bones.

Yet as I 
ambled side towns 
alone, a 
sad wind
merely 
whimpered

and rays of 
the scarce 
sun 
warmed what
 til then 
quietly lingered;

the cold wounds of betrayal
by a mercurial tin soldier, 

when our advance,
 outmarched by time, and
 apart we grew older.

My shield dulled and dented
had staved off fate's fatal blade,

yet when felled to knees, 
saw just footprints paced wide 
as I called for aid.

His armor only 
outshone by greyed 
eyes reflecting in a
black beat of his heart

shards of ice flowed in vein for it pierced by ricochet of 
pride's poison dart. 

But though his 
hollowed
word’s worth
built hallowed 
roads to 
fallen hells,

here a peaceful 
dove's 
morning song
for a 
golden host
 of daffodils,

forged a bridge 
from our 
ashes 
to raise the 
ground neath 
my feet;

a harmony yet 
richer for 
bells of cats 
stepping in 
stealth 
on ridges steep.

Living the best of their lives,
so I followed their lesson to learn;

a clod of clay can 
be spun by potter both to 
vase or to urn.

And yawning trees 
bathed the air, a
 force turned feast
 for lungs starved; 

kindled faith my 
past paved way 
for my prettiest path 
to be carved.

So my ghost cast out its 
water unfallen 
and reborn its former shell to me

outside in this chapel of ancient tors
and rolling fields of green.