Winter Is Not Yet Gone

The drifter by the newstand looks up,

No chance of rain on this Sunday morning,

Perhaps a ray of sunshine will warm his sleep,

Before the cold of night sets in and reminds him

That winter is not yet gone.

She lays in the sunfilled window sil,

In silence to dream her sunlit dreams,

She's a cat and she has no cares,

Only the knowledge that it does not matter

That winter is not yet gone.

The Virgin's Never

Broken daylight like sand against my skin;
Rubbed raw at missing you.
'Never' seems so final,
Like Macbeth's bells of heralded death,
And while I know the bells will ring just this once,
The thought of 'never'
Is no imagined dagger but reality,
Here driven into my heart;
My virginal blood then on our sheets.