Kristine Kinghorn



Masks

I collect masks.
All over my house
Holes for eyes
Stare.
But nobody notices
The ones that I wear.



Elven Voice

The lilting laughing light-fingered lines
Spin softly round my senses.
Delicate dangerous darting delirious desire
Eliminates my defences.

Troubled, teased, torn, twisted and tweaked,
Enspelled by the beautiful noise.
Forgotten fey fires are fanned and are fed,
Soul stolen by your elven voice.



Tree

She stands tall,
Clad only in the sun,
Stretches her arms high,
Whispers her wisdom into the wind.
Many years now has she stood here
Patiently waiting.
For what?
Only she may know.
Her feet have sunk deep into the soil
And from this spot she will never move.