Alchemisland

Crown jewel berry hued buried with my favourite fool

Let smith’s tools eke out my features, free the creature in the stone

Unleashing images

Two days ago, happy among hens, princes and goodly men enjoying all they felt was due them

It was Tuesday and hot in Florence, that never short a florin lot

In the field to receive the crop cap doffers and peat block cutters with overshoulder hods

Rites are made, votives displayed at an old stone place, so John Barleycorn will never stop

There, flotsam Sicilian lilies flourish girdled by foreign fronds, prehistoric ferns, furze and firs

An enormous allotment divided into petaliant lots startstop of the ticktock those on the clock

Do not stop when the carriages rock by, nor when skyhigh hats fop-popular like poplars wobble forth

At the fourth hour they gather, cowering from sun in the shade of a bower

Flowers bees and cows, they retire for the eve fetching poitín from behind the byre

Pipes around pyres, Ezekiel’s tyres complete their cycles, they sing of Saint Michael:

His strife and triumph having trifle with a giant dragon, the combat dragged on

Many times his life’s curtains were close to drawn but he held on, his falcon

Wings enabled him to perform a flying flank, vaulted like a bank basement to the beast’s amazement

The drake’s spined back like a macehead, the spear tears through breaksbread

He rises wingspread looking east

Gilt planet of a vast medallion hanging down, countless dancing diamonds

Night stymied at sunrising, time of aviate orisons, the early diving beat out the skiving, skywinged the wormbringers

A solar dalliance fetchens his countenance, Fechin painting handsome proud mansome

The expansive House of his Master unexplainable, he has tamed the land untamable and bleached the sable trenches, the most able Lord of all heaven and all hosts, man’s sum

Is found in the visage of his Son, three found in one, thee font of holy blood, he to come

To take his throne and usher in days as seen of old, when the cold voice of the Control

Spoke often, drolly told his followers the covenants he would behold them to

At Bethany where Jesus wept a man rose from the dead, as if he only slept before

Three days, not one day more, I am the waves that mark the shore, the fire in the heart’s core

Below his sandalioned feet the brazen oftbloodtasting beast beastly dead, lolling head

Tongue unfurled, blood like the whole world bled throbbing red

Ichorsuppers overfed who could not aviate were mainly ate by avians 

Its lolling head large as the bed of Og of Bashan.