This town is an Island of Glass.
The angle of incidence equals the angle of reflection
with an echo of frankincense legends.
The taste of our heritage, no more
than claret wine spilt on the altar.
A stain that even Joseph,
with his Aramaic descent would not permit.
He would shatter the illusion; reveal the truth.
This town is an island of chaos.
The ubiquitous temple of pandemonium.
It’s not even an island. ‘Nor plim ti gripes an bens.’
Yet the waters rise only to startle our eyes with
weeping for a memory long gone.
Tales of Dee, an apple-squire and a plum cheeked wench.
And if ‘those feet’ walk over water to this mountain green,
would they rush to the market place? Fill bags with
prayer flags, crystals, sheepskins and slippers?
Not even Medusa can transmute profit’s bane.
Turning stone to silver until dragons rise up
in dissent to reinstate sovereignty.
A soundless clarion to build heaven on earth.
It is a wise man who stands
in the wildness of his conviction
and gives no master the key to his immortality.
Nor the gnosis to immanentize the eschaton.
A grail talks to those who are worthy.
Shattered fragments reveal a reflection of sorts,
a sword calls us to remembrance.
The King is dead, long live the King
And still the question remains,
Whose bones are they?
Lisa Goodwin –rewritten December 2015