Friday, November 7, 2014


[From: "The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"]

O what will the archaeologists find
sifting the silt-dust in my mind?
A monastery buried in the hills,
a cloistered box of cogs and wheels
left overnight in the pouring rain,
little souvenirs of forgotten pain:
a rusted half-penny, a twisted nail,
a toy sailing-ship without a sail,
beetle-leather armor and spider-silk,
an acorn goblet of moonlight milk,
wooden thoughts, wrought-iron dreams;
mansions built up with ryegrass beams;
white-onyx smiles, looking-glass eyes;
a clockwork crow that croaks and flies;
a rocking-horse rabbit, a porcelain frog;
an engraving of foxes chasing a dog;
some wild boar tusks, a skeleton hand
and an hourglass emptied of all its sand.

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