Final Stroke Of The Adze

I woke up this morning and this was asking to be written- so I wrote it...

Final Stroke of the Adze

Pick the Little wimberries
In among the heather-
Shine of sun on the distant sea,
She and I together.

Last sweep of the varnish brush,
Final stroke of the adze-
My love is like the mountain breeze
In the leaves of the mountain ash.

We said our vows on the rocky hill
Where the monks from Ireland lie,
No witnesses but the kittiwake
And the gull with her yellow eye.

Last sweep of the varnish brush,
Final stroke of the adze-
My love is like the mountain breeze
In the leaves of the mountain ash.

Our children's children climb the fell
To pick the wimberries there
While we lie low in the stony earth
And dance in the mountain air.

Last sweep of the varnish brush,
Final stroke of the adze-
My love is like the mountain breeze
In the leaves of the mountain ash.

Very Short Ghost Story

I came in through the front door.

"Did you just walk past the back of my chair?" said Ailz.

"No," I said, "I've been out in the garden."

"Well, someone did," she said, "And then they went through into the back room."

"Ah, I said, "interesting..."