"The New World sounds its horn to all its evangelists, antagonists and enthusiasts, in bold claim of the English language and all its endeavors. There are those who will rise up. This new renaissance of post-modern verse varies in its expense from page to page, and yet, no expense is spared. The jewels of the world vary greatly, but few are as rare a find as this trilogy of works of the Black Saint. . . "

Preface to Victoriana (2015)

I listened from out the little window

to see if I could hear your song

in the lane,

and when the familiar whistle sounded,

even my dulcet heart gave way.

There was the song of us

that whistled on the moor

before the seasons began,

when we knew we’d be together

even in a foreign land.

There was the wood

that burned dry in the hearth;

I took a coin from my purse,

and counted the face on it

memorizing the moments your touch

reached out in healing.

There was the building of

something new amid the old,

a search for independence,

a need to voice a referendum.

The old country calls me home.

Its architecture has not yet crumbled.

I wave from my window

and write Scottish poems

to the sonorous bagpipe,

the fire, burning, burning cinders.

From the poem "Burning Cinders"

Victoriana