Prelude

This earth – this portion – it is

like a green kiss upon

the cheek of God; soft

rolling memories of breath

and limestone. Mark, carefully, the land

of peat and tin and moss and know

there are knockers fingering copper

in its darkest corners and piskies

curdling milk and pinching children and

across the moors heed the screams

of frothed mares bolting

from the last wild hunt.

There is a brilliance here

when the sun soaks

and slips like butter –

a prophet’s alchemy of fire

from the sky drooling

over bluffs and scarps –

to think, such simple chemistry

eluded us and the ancients both.

After all, we could never birth a gold

as brazen as the skies of Dumnonia –

yet despite the acid-grass and thunder

this land is tender – a hare’s heart

holds no chambers but is wide

and heathered and packed with

pity for these mortal frames

sprinting and gasping

from dust to dust. They smell

the impotence in men’s fingertips

and choose instead to grant us memory,

gilded thoughts from Devon’s golden

cerebrum – ideas, impressions –

inspiration from the blood

and the cud – listen closely

the gorse is singing.

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