( Hamlet artwork from Emsworth ) Winter’s leaving here, deserting the rivers and trees. I’ll survey the damage from safety, a shrunken counselor veiled behind the tapestry , the symbol and scrape shuddering in the squall. Osric, Ophelia and sweet prince, won’t you navigate the North and Baltic Sea and sail into Denmark’s sun? I’ve been expecting you, a tragedy holding out for champion, the gray and wide-eyed cape to shroud my eyes and mouth like a theatre mask, a circus, a camouflage, a falseness uncalled for. I can see you walking beside me on the water’s frame, in the retreating silence, two famished beasts leaning silently into view like a scolded child, poking their heads around my judgment without the songbird’s consent. Won’t you come to me, join me on my walk? Love? © 2011 by mark prime
(The Weaver's Song)