Alchemisland

All the sheep I need to count to sleep bounced, they’re asleep in the big house

Not a mouse; not a peep throughout the keep, save windswept leaves 

Dragged along barbican flags, my shackled hands inherit keys

Freed, I release myself

Fleeing my dank dwelling, leaving for sweet freedom

A beacon the sucked sweet moon

Leaking bleak punctured milk sunshine on an undercoated midnight countryside

Her treatise preaching unreason

Swooning temple of treason

Like the crown of flensed Tiresias

Boot-chewing bog and low-going fog makes for slow going, captain’s log

Flags once, hungry birch staves wear scant rag bandanas

Flapping banners emblazoned with sight-palmed hands in ham pink

Lambton dragons in glinting half-gold, burnished as Mycenaean furnishings

Flexed arms advocating strength of arms and arts martial

Symbols and sigils manifesting riches

Archer’s arms and bends sinister

Endorsing the nations of yore, since finished.