A Saucer For My Combat Garb

a saucer for my combat garb.

so steams the white-fish fillet to the crown.

two years gone, my Phileas Fogg,

it is eighty days since England bid farewell

and slept aboard old Harry Rocks,

around the Dorset Coast in a lambs wool veil.

there is beauty here in mumbers,

where cormorants hatch from seagulls eggs,

so shall I walk where oats of menace sprout;

it is the endless miles of turtleneck,

shell of man. wine bottle lamps.

there are none so bright as they who kiss farewell;

from the needles of a tree,

there is hogmanay in your heart I cannot see.

what chaos comes from the thunder in our eyes?

all woods will have us say our peace,

while mountains made our gardens pure.

there is no night light enough this cupid's tale,

my narrow room with flowers,

a flaming flood of oil came coils of spring.

there are none so bright as they who kiss farewell.

Edinburgh will never be my home;