photo credit: Kari Musil 

Like whiskey aged

Mellowed

Slowed down

Old school

Remembered for it’s bite

Some flavors are acquired taste

Between dark history

And magic fairies 

Is a legacy of ghosts

Who will not be stilled

By death or passage into

Other dimensions

Weeds are designated

By those with shallo...

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I ponder the etiquette of nursing a pint

and whether some might find it impolite

if I made it last just little while longer that I

might watch the rain that crawls on the steamed windows

making broken ghosts of every passer by

each of them eager to avoid

catching the eye of the living and I wonder

which one of them broke winter’s heart such as to make it

so bitter

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On Sandal’s Field Of Ghosts.

 

Mist hangs over fields -

ahead, the castle looms where

died the Duke Of York.

 

At the willows three

a chill permeates the air

and touches nerve ends.

 

Here fell the Yorkist

hope – body mutilated

and dragged through the mud.

 

Decapitated.

His head sent on to York to

top a traitors spike.

 

I...

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