Alchemisland

My father made a pleasure dome in some mad Victorian fervour 

He began with plants and stones until it extended further and further 

Beyond crude palisades of hearty piled stones

Near a pansy-shored meander, where a spider makes his home. 

‘Tween mossy stone and cloudy bank in a web of gossamer spun 

This spider sits awaiting flies until the day is done. 

And as he toiled, those piling stones, papa he sought solace 

How could that little creature weave, when I struggle with this? 

Tend the land, repair the firmament, let wondrous flowers grow 

Build for me a magic place where only we might go,

A secret idyll behind the hedge where real and fancy mix, 

Where Badgers speak and wear bright clothes and live in huts of sticks. 

Appearing roughspun outside, of less than higher craft 

Inside you’ll find comforts of homely sort, the badger says ‘Egad!’

What creature now fills up my frame 

Pray tell me beastie, what on Mars is your name?’

Sputtering ‘Mars! You must be mad

Don’t you know your hovel sits thebacka dad’s pad?’

‘Keep mad for yourself, you impudent wretch.

It’s your imagination requiring stretch. 

Look outside before you see 

A barren landscape, devoid of all sea 

Dunes of deep crimson, tall pillars of sand 

Not a sight of your father through the breadth of this land.’

‘Pray tell me, gentleman badger. Have you seen him pass? 

A man a mite shorter, with a moustache and glass

Spectacles hanging upon the crook of his nose 

With a watering can, crumbled fags and a length of gnarled hose.’

‘Aye I have seen him.’ The Badger turns rather dour 

Bids me sit down on his stool by the flowers. 

Pansies in purple, ochre and black, 

the kind that my father is so desperate to stack. 

‘My chum, some grave news I’m bidden impart

Lo that I could lad, but I must play my part 

In telling you grave news, your father we’ve seen 

In fact, quite recently, out here by the stream.’

‘A stream?’ Aghast, I shout with surprise, 

‘Here on red Mars? I scarce believe my eyes.’

‘The one of its kind, we call it the Den.’

‘Why – that’s my father’s name, but of course other men.’

‘By gum you’ve caught it, good keeping abreast 

Indeed it’s your father to whom we’ve addressed

Such tribute to name our sole river for him 

We owe much to his spirit, and so to his kin. 

I will aid you in finding his rest

Although I must warn he is far from his best.

Winter of life has come to an end 

Begin Spring in another, somewhere round bend. 

Alas that bend is sharp, how long you might trudge on 

It curves and curves a thousand miles and you’ll meet other sons, 

On similar quests for lost father souls 

Dragged home for hugs then hidden like moles, 

That when reaper arrives subterfuge would spurn 

Send him packing to hades.’ Robes billow as turns.

Tears in my eyes now, ‘I see your meaning.’

I felt the floor rise, I’m flat to the ceiling.