Whatever writings I leave behind
Do not read
do not leaf through
for possible glimpses of my state of mind.
There will be much I leave unfinished
as would be the case for anyone who dies
while still living
I longed to travel more
to live among the stones
those sentinels standing on the mounds and in the fields
the mist and drizzle
rosy cheeks and wisps of hair
droplets of fog clinging to each errant strand
the coarse woolen weave of vest and shawl
with hammered brooch
the coach with horse breath and whinny
snort and steam rising up from heated flank
wind gusts perfumed by bracken
and bird calls from loch and heather
of hearths fragrant with peat and broth
hand me in
to the carriage.
I shall not be wretched twice.
There is nothing to be done.
Life too quickly ended without time enough to dream.
Longing for desire in the distance.
It is dusk now
The twilight is the in between.
These letters are not from Mama.
Rather from a lover.