A poem can not be read slowly enough
no safe passage into dear reader's care.
Extreme as Ireland's Atlantic cliffs 
where shadow and light like imperilled life flit:
the places words snatched by shrill winds collect.
It is there we must direct our steps, only there
signal moments caught from passing time,
occasional anniversary cards dry in drawers.

I have a prediliction for serious treatment
in poetry a commitment to truth,
writing for an audience of one
 -and that one chosen- the ideal.
Eavesdroppers kindly disregard 
words overheard words misconstrued.