Oh, Boudicaa's Essence

Awake, oh, the open sky,

Where Philippa rides

With the dawn sunset breaking

Across her back, pièd

In silver and gold,

The heat-felled rainbow,

In the hushed rush

Of the two-mooned eyelette-

Alive- and dressed in down

Belonging to the once-born,

Oh, Boudicaa,

Queen in iron and substance

Of the mellow sky above,

Where the high-land estuaries

Did breathe by subtlety alone,

Forgoing the respiratory

Of dewdrop mounds,

Oceans of hills in contrast,

Tracing ashes in the fall

Of the melody of night.

There, that epoch of siren singer,

When it drops below,

That passion of aesthetic,

The contained eyes, light-filled,

Are spoken for in gestures,

Gyrations,

Laid in phosphorescence,

Softly whispered with

The tainted sibilance,

That is where the image is moulded,

Where turgid towers from a straightback grow,

Too shot against the scene-

Of amaranthine

And absinthium black-

A mirage mire, and higher

They spin the line;

Of cityscapes, the dream is dealt,

Yet in the raging Aldebaran’s eyes

Sits a town led into

Past by graceful tones:

The smoke is dew in red and blue,

Duo chrome whilst she

Canters across the centuries;

The dusk will set with morning

Delirium delight to uphold the question:

What mysteries lie?

What mysteries lie?

The End

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