Walking blues

Woke up alone this morning

A lament

The colour, shape, size of the test

Limping thru a haze of hate

In present shape

Smell of roots

Feet planted into present

Sound of fate

A bugle (why a bugle?)

Trumpeting herald of my morning

Her announcement

A dawn breaking over Erin,

Like that longing,

Flame on an altar,

Calling spirit

Resolving

Into the vision before me

It’s always her now

Her incense

Her form to embrace –

The lady with a squillian coloured words to name

Cal Kalve