DUMNONIA I
I step across the earthly expanse,
Rocks drowning in mud and peat.
There, on the hillside, an enclosure made of stone is placed.
I think to the livestock that roamed this small hill box,
What gods they lay their hearth down upon,
I think to my sea at home,
And the men that tended to the waves,
For the good of their kin.
The felling sound of men escapes the tree line,
And breaks this thought in two.
I am left standing at a cross,
For something so hallowed,
It looks to me like a serpent escaping,
from infernal dominion.
The mist congeals at the rise,
The parliament of great stones loom and speak,
Passing knowledge of my tomorrows between them.
They know, but I do not.
What tomorrows lay ahead?
I step upon the earth and find out day by day but never knowing of its fixture until it is already passed.
They breath in deep time,
For I must appear a speck of dust floating in the mist.
My sorrows and joys a leaf floating down stream until I am tossed to the waves.
DUMNONIA II - Merrivale Procession (for Roger, The Gatekeeper)
This Man,
Steps Merrivale,
And the marching stones that led,
Well stepped are his processions to the wind,
And at the slump of eve,
The moon and its host of light falls upon,
This Man
O’ Godland, What Felt Your Hill?
Upon the works it slept and “Slayer of Serpents” spoke the lanky timber door,
Almighty Godland Throne Sitter, Edward, Hammer of Scots,
pious and governing from his wine soaked stone,
commissioned the canonical earthwork and all that rose.
O’ Godland, what felt your hill?
Now ruins–not even ruins–fall flat to the mud,
and grass gathering,
Kittiwakes take the Bishop’s Familia,
just papers, a fabric and references,
adrift in the annals of this England.
On The Beginnings of Fairlight
He affronted the breaches of a new England coast,
Swallowed with primordial fuss,
A moonlit length of shoreline and,
Named the cavity Fairlight.
"There!" He cried.
All men fell silent,
Drinking up the potential and,
Gawping at his cloak,
That made up the star speckled canopy of night.
Cymenshore
So he stepped unto,
Miles of stones.
They woke,
Chewed and spat from mouths,
Of Mercredesburne.
King of the wash,
Iron soil,
Seated,
The weary seafared,
King of Mercredesburne.
To what end did the King,
Call this land home,
The digger of dirt,
Of soil so rich of kin,
Three sons,
A cradle of pine,
What felled the king of Mercredesburne.