Rock salted fields hard-by thwacking sea's
shorelines of wave-shaved boulders
a fluidity that mimics an oceans alien speech.
The fractured artifacts of tribal migrations
roll in the surf as grains of an ancient sand,
there are hints and a sense of raw faiths,
of the obscure paint of submerged visages,
facets only visible
through the eroded lens of a former doom.
On these shifting margins,
insipient nations as naked as any roaming wind
declined amidst their own young bones,
laying down to wither away in exhausted camps.
Rinsed by a ceaseless ebb and flow,
the stonewashed threads of the bygone
suggest landscaped formations
of humanity.
We have seen the rise and fall of the scattered,
their cultures a supposition of burnt offerings,
yet we should also
confess to a towering significance:
one that we estranged settlers
will eventually leave as a jigsaw of watermarks,
or as further innocent signs
of our own barbaric existence.
Long ago before the High Fae before man, there was a Cauldron
They say all the magic was contained inside it since the world began
One day it fell in the wrong hands and great horrible things were done to it
Many an object was forged but eventually it ran away heading for the hills
It could not be destroyed, for it was made of many things, including steel
Late at night behind the mountains in the deep thick forest
the village people heard banging, clanging, and smacking
but when the morning arrived, all was quiet once again
Then one day a brave little boy went into the forest to see
The cauldron sensing the boy near stopped the thwacking right away
"Jiminy Cricket" what do we have here" cried the boy
Cauldron spewed red lava from its top, then sirened like a cop
"not so loud" whined Jeremiah, just hold still and I will help you
then he scraped and he slashed and he pulled all night
until the cauldron was bare, beneath the moonlight
Long ago before the dark witches of Chenwick village chanted in bold
their was a lovely Cauldron that refused to do evil, or so I was told.
A rock salted field hard-by a thwacking sea,
a shore of time-crushed boulders
that form the twisted shadow-shapes
of long-forgotten histories,
margins where the scored etchings
of red raw faiths and wind carved countenances
are submerged signs only visible
through the long-eroded lens of doom.
Here were once groups and troops
that have died around their young bones
while laying exhausted in open camps.
At low-tide, among such eroded liniments,
a time-crushed human landscape is revealed.
We see the swift rise and fall of the long buried,
and recognize a towering significance: -
that it is we that will leave watermarks
for others to discover. A featureless ocean
will whittle new features upon our own
barbaric innocence.
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