Seventy-five followed by Seventeen Zeros (and not one is me)

Just a fracture in the sheer,
Spilling down her face
Like a grief-stricken tear.

Weighted and waiting
For the skipping throw,
Of lucky worn slating.

Inferior and to the feet
And the dogs wet pawing; between them
In crashing, rolling: the ceaseless repeat.

Then you slip away, as planned;
Forgotten and insignificant
Just a grain of sand.

You fall through the hand,
You travel free on the air,
You are just a grain of sand.

A letter to St. David

I love your little starling song,
Its melodies like zephyrous incence;
When it sings without a care.
It fills my heart with light
Of the richest pastel blue,
And the maternal bleet
Of swolen sheep: on the first of March.
Where I may be, it takes me there
There I stand with you.

The sun shines through
A cloudless sky, In a Summer-time
Mirage. The air is ghostly,
Gently nipping like the pup;
But it cannot hide the heat,
Of whats to come
In the Summer sun
Walking barefoot allday long
On grass, sand and street.

Your lovely little starling song
Never seems to last,
A change of key and shrill medley,
Of dark nights and dark days
And of cold Winters past.
I do not wish to hear this tune
So portent and ever so glum,
Lovers live; to happy be,
And finally Spring has come.

Look to Summer and let it
Fill your sails;
The past has past,
You sailed right past:
It has gone, dead and buried.
Let the memories carry your voice along,
The pastel-blue March air,
Let every heart be lifted at the sound,
Of your lovely little starling song.