Smoked hay, now waving mist away
An extensive and expensive inquest
Into the matter of my betrayal
I find myself an old place’s claimant
In the silent gallery, the solemn portrait of the grave man
In his plain but delicately arraigned raiment
Upon which the graceful saints were quaintly traced;
Their faces looking toward that place of blithe escape,
Our fire at death races thereto.
The sky’s hue spells that spells of rain are due
Come morn, the lawn strewn with dew
Veils drawn back to a view askew
Icy white that which I review
In such weather, the piper fumbles his reveilles
Around the back, flapping
A tacky peacock windvane battered, almost taken away
Gales such that hatches down must be battened
Up here high in my high place, looking down upon the fields and the lanes
Attempting to discern the pattern and find what matters, for once
That land, quartered like a battenburg on a tea tray at lunch
In the background, blank and round the black country veils
The sharp, tall valley mazeways; their broad, amazing sweep
Ancient stones going straight up to scrape the sky
‘Twixt menhirs run fizzing leys, like linking chains
Thick with rich seam and vein ample for Judas’ greed
Precious ores abound there, indeed
Cows chewing green in the fields.
Alchemisland 
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