Of our Island
And what the sky, and what the land and what the hand of humankind,
Without the sprinkle of the stars, nor yet the rain and sun together,
that maketh our good soil a’ shine, with,
“due a rainbow here, in a week or two.” weather
and sweet this land within a gale, or laced into a winters tail,
of loves first kiss upon a stand, a coven’s corrie, a cloven hoof,
that sweet talk and honeyed tongue of one half spoken, one half sung,
a puzzle strewn upon a hill, of, a spiral follows, a pattern still
enough to push and pull a barrow from deep in earth to collect an arrow,
of heavens’ dew and collapse all myth and close all doors, until a mist,
occurs o’ when, a writer settles, down for sleep
and the pen it rise, and writes more twists
the addicts grease upon the tool that dilutes truth and crosses out rule
and folds a skin of pitching in, into a question in the wind, the answers told,
and youth be bold and take up the offer and take up the pen, and let the meandering
words fall in, of yin and yang and buttered toast and travelling along in boats
forever ordered, forever neat, here nearby to Arthur’s seat,
where every feat and every sparrow look at one and on and gone
the smallest rhyme, the diffracted rhythm of, lovers lost from author’s hollow,
where the Islands Swallow found an olive, and a glove.