Alchemisland

Skellig old and lonely as thrice

Mouldy bones rolled, futuretold

Moss-robed, the road’s toes lit by torch holders.

Heaven’s tossed rope I could not climb due to sore shoulders.

Scratching layers off finger-flaying razor loam, seeking a lost poem

Which telling grew. I hear longing sirens singing in longer Irish spellings

Map-filling stag roars. Split bellies. Jagged, graven language of haven’ts.

Hag-killing chasms. Holier whores spasming glorily for their horned lords

Gore-soaked from sorting, pouring over the portents for lore of importance

Dark skies forming. Hope-aborting hordes consort scornfully. In their manse

A hand-shaped monstrance burning constant

Surrounded by monstrous stinging plants.