Grey light strokes the roofs,
buses hum through waking streets—
doors sigh into day,
footsteps gather with the mist,
London lifts its Monday breath.
London Morning
The Gentle Coup
These twin soft arguments against my doubt,
They rise to speak when words would rather flee;
Two commas placed where breath is taken out,
Insisting gravity still bends to me.
They know the joke before I let it slip,
Conspire in silk, then feign a sober face;
Not loud, not coy, they keep a gentle quip,
A hush that laughs within its proper place.
No banners waved, no brazen claims declared,
They balance mirth with manners learned at tea;
A tender weight of pleasure, well-prepared,
To be the pun I keep politely free.
So let them rest—my smile’s accomplice pair,
Proof play can dress as poise, and still be fair.
星期日
|
窗邊慢慢坐， |
I sit by the window, |
Night, in White Satin
Night drapes its pale cloth over my shoulders,
soft as a held breath,
and yes, the cat has already claimed it—
typical.
The walls hold their silence
and try not to snicker.
I drift through the dark
like a memory
someone once adored carefully—
though let’s be honest,
they probably forgot the lampshade anyway.
Absence hovers
not as grief,
not as longing,
but as the gentle weight
of what was never spent…
and a dash of mischief too.
Time circles lazily,
looping the lamp, the glass,
my still hands.
I almost deliver a clever line,
but the quiet winks instead.
I wear solitude like silk.
It knows my name,
and the twitch of my eyebrow that says:
“Really, moon? You’re late again?”
If dawn arrives—
it will find me unchanged,
wrapped in what I chose to keep:
white,
waiting,
awake,
and quietly amused at everything.
Winder in Scotland
The cauld wind sweeps the bens sae bare,
Wi’ snaw like lace hung in the air.
The lochs lie still in frosted sheen,
A winder crown o’ white and green.
九尾入格
|
月冷朱門九尾來， 枕邊舊夢人先動， |
You curse my tails, my painted mouth, I do not gnaw at loyal beams, |
寒光識暖
|
冬日低懸 |
Winter sun hangs low— |
Yule Sonnet
At Yule the langest nicht draws in its breath,
The lift hangs laigh wi frost and ancient cheer;
Auld stars keek doon, unfeart o time or death,
While hearths find heart in flame they haud sae dear.
The warld lies still, a benediction cauld,
Each field a psalm in siller, saft and true;
We mind the tales oor forebears ance hauld—
O licht reborn, though born in darkest blue.
The pine-sap scent, the sangs o voices low,
Bind grief and hope in ane enduring strain;
Frae ash and spark, new mornings learn to grow,
And sorrow yields, if no without some pain.
Sae keep this fire till day learns how to rise:
Yule minds us hope aye wakens, though it sighs.
Christmas Morning
The morning breaks in golden light,
Dispersing all the hush of night.
A gentle warmth begins to rise,
As joy awakens earth and skies.
The bells ring out with silver cheer,
Their echoes bright, their message clear.
They call the weary world to see
The birth that sets all people free.
The frosted fields in silence gleam,
As if the world were caught in dream.
Yet every spark of winter’s glow
Proclaims the love we long to know.
So let our hearts with gladness sing,
For hope has come on angel wing.
On Christmas morn the world is new,
And light returns in grace and truth.
Christmas Eve
The night is still, the stars are bright,
They lean above the world in flight.
A quiet breath the heavens weave,
For love draws near on Christmas Eve.
The shepherds keep their humble watch,
While hope descends they cannot catch.
The air is filled with whispered grace,
As angels gather into place.
The weary earth in silence lies,
Awaiting dawn in newborn skies.
A promise stirs in every tree,
That peace shall come for all to see.
So let our hearts be open wide,
As light and mercy coincide.
For in this hour the world believes—
A child is born on Christmas Eve.
Christmas Eve Morning
The morning breaks in silver hue,
With frost that glistens fresh and new.
A hush of hope the daylight weaves,
For wonder stirs on Christmas Eve.
Quiet Defiance
I do not shout; my no is softly said,
A candle cupped against the waiting storm.
The world may press its crown upon my head,
Yet cannot teach my backbone how to form.
I bend as rivers do, not taught to kneel,
My silence stocked with iron and with breath.
What I withhold is truer than appeal;
I starve the noise by living past its death.
They look for fire and find a steady coal,
For spectacle and rage I never give.
My patience keeps its vows, intact and whole;
I choose the terms by which I will live.
Let thunder spend itself on louder names—
I last. I walk away. I do not flame.
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