In the Ruins of St. Andrews' Cathedral, Hallow'e'en, 1987

Hear I, no longer, that mourning keen
That brought to a megalith scene.

Nor remember a nighted moon hued jade,
nor silent curs who never bayed;

but a scorching wind, of remnant June,
and whistles of a revenant tune;

and dead, a hand that broke through sod,
‘Til others joined, to stand and nod.

And Wagner played there, on the dark
where dancers ringed, in that park;

spastic soon, and mocking Saints,
blind to their own stench, and taints.

And dead, did lovers still find glee,
A cold lust shared, for she and he.

But no tears shared, in their sight,
save for fears, of too-soon Light.

That Festival broken, by a knell:
a tolling wake, a far church bell;

new stars that spoke, in their place,
and told each: find your carapace.

Until panicked, did bodies race
before sunrise, to find their space,


Unbeknownst, save for my face;


A glimpse, just
as I turned.