From the green bench I hear a strident cuckoo calling down rain. It is cloudy but there is no rain in season. Soon it will be hot and summer in the trees.
The stalker poem was about a thirty year old dream that has gone sour. Dreams go sour in the late hours. At such late hours stalkers are mere figments. They are your stories and secrets. Shadows of things that persist to stride before you and after.
Stalker please do not stalk shadows.
They are long and stride before you
Under red rock, into the afternoons
When you doze in lonely bed rooms
On yesteryears’ stale love thoughts.
Stalker, shadows are not from love
But just figments of a spinster mind
Trapped in a body’s parched throat
With a mind spinning fevered tales.
Most of all, they are not all that real.