Golgotha Reborn

From the tattered frames of rock Where the eyeless sockets stare, To the surface of the waters To be reflected there, The harsh light of the dead Slithers down the stone like tears, And the muttering of the bracken Stabs like polyphonic spears. In the myths of dreadful sorcery Where the brood of thunder stirs, Creaks and groans the grinding strata, Waves the limbs of pines and firs, And this serrated range of cliffs, These jagged mountains of the morn Is a place of skulls by night And Golgotha is reborn. It is the nature of the martyr To be perished for a cause, It is the modus of the saviour, To be selfless without pause, Yet the Devil knows his business With such perspicacity For the nature of the tourist Is to look but never see…