Isle of Jura, house of rabbits
Fortune in the firegrate, wind displaced
This place solemn and solitary
Far on the fringes, in thrall of idolatry
My eyes like Durer’s beholding Montezuma’s boons and treasures
Beaten gold inches thick, the sun’s shape
Lord of the world, known to the wordless and the wealthless
Last to finish but first to realise, revelators and rousers each rank
Their depth faithless last to demise
Materialised in stone the wise old man’s visage frowning
Melting down a golden sun
Glimpse of explosive end to time
Apollo’s stoven crown leaking liquid flames
Lithofracteur cracks the landscape
Vicious fissures yield the ground
Burnished skin where a gauntlet goes, Weyland stirs Lugh’s old cauldron, once of Murias
Or Findias. Does it really matter
When mispronouncing a dead man’s home’s name
Complaints rare from Sheol
And those heard regard the flames
Alchemisland 
Leave a comment