is quite dead,
so secure in her peace
that her parting has faded
and all that remains
is her name, and that
too, will soon be gone
as she was, slowly
devoured by the winds.
The white swans on the Thames
pay her no notice.
A fog settles in over High Wycombe
gray clouds shroud a full silver moon
great beasts, sinews drawn tight,
ready to spring forward,
instead crawl along the motorway,
the faint lights of London cast
a glow to the sky, my breath
seems phosphorescent, falling
coating the grass, stiff in the breeze.
Macbeth had a witches problem,
but that hardly made him unique.
It’s true that Scottish witches
are more difficult to deal with
than those of much of the rest
of Western Europe, something to do
with being under English dominion
for so damned long that Erse
is a nearly forgotten tongue,
but you’d think a General would
at least speak the local lingo.
Still, you have to wonder
just how things could have
turned out if only he had
a pair of ruby slippers
to get him back to Inverness,
for an afternoon dip in the Loch.