The Highland Prince

He and the place,
so worn; so wild.
Eye lines and the deep crags,
wind strapped and rain.
Vision, painted hazel and the earthen touch.
Green and blue flashes;
immortal rolling turf, and white swept dome.
A tenor utter in the gale, and carried,
while hands touch, and furs caress.
Up here, highlands.
The sun’s meddle, groping milky throats,
and fingers, leather, and golden-tipped curls —
crafted in gasses; smoothed by loughs.
Brandy tongue tousle,
and ancient shadow stones.

The Priest’s Son

Rolling, raspy tongue,
soaked in salty sweet, barreled amber.
Whiskey’d warrior; worn weaves,
and soft, the pelted shoulder.
Such severe darkness,
the lamenting and guarded notions; all that red-rimmed hazel.
Rough touch in the candle flicker,
fingertips and waists and teeth.
Upturned humor, scents of green and airy spaces.
Lead her over highlands and to loughs and within cold, lonely, and ancient stone.
Tartan soldier, bark your cry,
and into the mist and snow.