The people have lost the plot; that set of open ground

Once home, estate in Paradise, from whence old Adam fell,

And Eve beside him, sentient of idea, an inkling guide

Working one’s hide in earnest, wraith light leading minds,

A hum, and a constant head incline to driving aches,

Preoccupied a palace rich of dreams behind the face

Danced joys high amplified in eyes, attending sweet surmise,

Of a seemly thing impossible, yet with a not-know-how

Only its prow so lowly and obliquely intimating

On a cloudy horizon pointed by a magic book

As a worm aglow on an angler’s antique fishing hook

Made its raid, in search for heaven’s ladder, and corner stone

A game of hunt the thimble in this curious temporal zone

In any weathers, always, strove each one; divined,

Attempted exotic study rinsing life’s diluted fines

Runes, ruins, yesterdays, marked, dimpled by desire

Not themselves the aches-imperious for a Pentecostal fire

Procured, delirious starting-points, albeit insinuations

Through-leading to oases, brooklets of some inclination

Some further, bid to go on, further wells to be dug-out

Beneath a ground the very epicentre of rapacious doubt

Where moons infatuate go up, flare here, ride over there

Raise yens absorptive, holding thirsting people square

Islets and kites make monsterings of an idle matter

Yet even such fascinations find Theogeny its quarter

In this town we own today, to be our days-long custody

Heart’s-home grows concrete holds its ace-high corporate bonds

Opened a Book of Hours will tell Time Zones across The Pond

We apply a prevented easy Bible, reclaiming God for romance

Making him do what we want him to, behold, to sing and dance

Hoping to cut the mustard pretty nicely either ways

Hoping the world, and yet heaven receiving by the way

Too much indulgent fiction sails us latterly; notional boats

Tall towered off vapid island beaches; spumed in make-believe

Happy in shallows’ soporific anecdotes

Whose spoof on truth goes inwards, incapacitating

A disconnect adrift offshores of actuality

Terse, full-of-drama, voices curse at us in hearty rounds

Of boatman swearing from high places; lecturing

Turning-off colourful phrases framed by mirthless lack of learning

Climbing too high out on the mast, a vertigo mist surrounding

In thinking we’re up there at the topless towers’ tops

Thinking our thinking potent magic assured to never stop

Pushing its power to pimp provide like any streetwise hop

Lands all our lading –

We

Of the insula, a terra firma nation

Comfort ourselves conveniently, cum laudamus our station

We float

We live unconnected with ourselves, beyond our buried natures,

We are become half moribund half feckless feral creatures

Convenience washes with utility, whilst impotence sublimes

Sure-footed understanding, pulled, uprooted from the mind

Gone to the Outer Hebrides in modest comprehension

Where set on our thrones we await the tides obey our heed, recede

Only The Saviour save us otherwise a tack, indeed……….

……….too dark to mention