Alchemisland

Smoking joints in the trenches surrounding Tara

Barring Yank crowds and cawing crows no sounds

Snakeless pre and post-Patrick, Catholic mythmaker

Using shamrocks to illustrate Christian hat tricks

Patron saint of patience waiting on eighths

High samhraidh on Tara’s hills, Dowth-surrounded

Bizzarre visions, ancestral visitations, cognitive invasions

Solar placement, erection without precedent

We see them, no less for time, we less than them, eminent dawn men

Ancient Newgrange’s unique roof casement confirming ritual element

Focusing my pineal gland in the king’s chamber at winter solstice

The light recalls, the light upon, making its course up the passage

Like butter on the tomb front, the flaming whip of an old God

Belights the spiral-knighted column.

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Taking bird form, above the Boyne on hawk’s wings

Kerbstones alive with graven triskeles, the bending Boyne sensed in them 

In the heart of Royal Meath, drinking oildrums full of uisce beatha

Absolutely battered, grab a vodka fanta, amount send you to your leaba

Doldrums among the dolmens, how they dragged the stones here

How raised they into place mighty caps which no age’s travails see lapse

The predictable consecutive collapsing of nations it watches gravesilent

Patient in its ancience, the stone itself maintaining consciousness

Playing old stories back to us in stolen snippets of word stonesong

Men hulkstrong from Atlantis, Nephilim’s advantage, built them, or Dagda

Whole valley grandly planned, sculpted to preciousness by man’s hand

Then closer to Adam, even apathy could not damage them

Superstitions and taboos ensured the liths’ posterity.

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From grand vantage one can but imagine

This vast span of land untouched in its day

Miles Elysian hay gold sprayed, swaying orichalks

Orichalcum-banded willed woman, bandit queen ring-handed

Arms aloft, at wrist a leathern pommel to which a falcon drops, settling

Miles yet of sentinels betwixt the king’s hill and the henges

One imagines a ritual course which a blinded binded prince travels

His mind estranged by ritual unguent, bitter as cud on the tongue

Through vorpal portals flung, to a warrior is given the mind of an artist

Spiral mounds like targets for God’s pilum, which deity can cast farthest

I’ve heard Hades grapples well, but Apollo hits hardest.

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Sword denibs my pen but I wield the lancet of my art

My heart a fathomless, many-faceted crystal, Aztec in aspect

Inside which, like a fig in aspic, resides a sprig of azure aster

Blue as the sea battering the cliffs where it grows, a clump in a cleft

A clodless, cloudy, godless rock outcrop

Hovel if ever God sought one to drop on Satan.

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Lost in mystical environs after a pint of violent shrooms, mindbooms

Looming Chapel Perilous, I enter it like a Gawain 

Black bricks, fuligin fixtures, vauntings voidbricked

A church which God is kicked from, a sick form

I wonder is this not a trick to adorn me with unwanted oaths

Owls hoot madly, I cannot surmise whether in assent or displeasure

Yet on I go until grass gives to rock gives to mud gives to water

I stand at the Boyne’s centre and the man falls away

A milk of stars and knowledgeable salmon.