I imagine you crouched at the edge of the world
Like a gargoyle singing Scotish Balads.
The "Bloody wars of Scotland" falling from your face
like raspberry juice and daffodils;
in the heart of the heat or snow
the Earl of Murry rings forth
bounding into the cold noise
of the Artic waters where you place
knowledge before wars
or politicians
or scapegoats.
Sing, but do not die.
Tell me again of Shakespeare, George Lyall, Aristotle:
tell me your tales, but not that you lie dead on lover's day,
beautiful ashes strewn in February snow;
scattered under your trees where apple blossoms wait.
I hear your voice.
I hear the singing in sounds of vigorous air,
upwelling oceans,
lightening drums and thundering calls.
Even the crickets strum violins.
Your music fills the empty places and tells me what I know.