Without you, my output has been prolific,
scribbling and scratching till ink blots cease making stanzas, but rather
rise up mountains, winding away, lost in countless valleys.
Mists of Gleann Dá Loch,
I’m standing frigid in the water till the birds make nests of the curls of my hair.
Meandering mystic, and speaker aloud on the trail,
running my hands over written pages like fingers
play with notes and chords, when I wrote songs for you.
Guesswork mixed with assumed intonation.
In the hope that given time, I might stumble
across some clever incantation that takes me back in years to you,
and undoes the curse that keeps my manuscripts piling up.
Like dust gathers in the mansion,
and footprints appear suddenly on the forgotten floor
where there have been none.