September Rain

      Some of us have found our homes.
St. Magnus breathes the stone that lies next to a prayer.
The rain in her hair posts a look to the island shore
lost in the mist, the spirits of kings coming and fading,
their voices subsumed by the wind.

      In a refuse of morning,
a sad-eyed man sits in an English slum and wonders
how exile could be imposed before birth.
Hands must wait to touch the old kirk doors,
eyes must wait to see that most magnificent glass.

   Meanwhile,
he hopes the September rain will come to anodyne him,
cast him into a state close to forgetting.