17    Anno Domini

Ayin, Ayin! Cursed to view through fluted veil:

The lyre plays tastefully,

Ethereal young girls of the fey watch the ox,

Quite by chance the plough struck stone,

And the flint egg broke asunder,

Draco stepped out and spake:

“I am here what wouldst thou have me do?”

Accustomed as he was to the magicians’ circle,

Yet no avaricious sorcerer stood before him,

No gloomy garret greeted him,

No sombre cellar met his eyes,

Lit by candle, book and bell.

Only the soft breeze and gentle sun,

Only the whispering leaves and hedgerow rustle,

Only the timorous, curious murmur of those fair folk,

Who scattered when the egg was cracked.

Realising he was not trapped, Draco looked about in wonder,

And turning to the Ox he addressed it thus:

“I think, my noble beast, thou didst not bring me here,

And that mine release is some chance accident.”

The Ox nodded her consent, yet where the ploughman was,

No one could say.

(Graham   31 January 2023)

18    Anathemata

n + 1

A pointless question repeated,

a way of peering into the abyss,

it appeals to me, this

crack in the cave wall.

If lost in the event field

of a fallow horizon,

if black sounding strings

see Thuban align again,

a chiasmus of things set apart

will amplify his dreadful heart.

 . . . from Lindum to London

bridges broken down 

Gale, hail, tornadoes of razor wire,

floods, muds, deserts of city and shire,

then moor and fen will wild again

to crack and cook and burn.

See: the omelette… stinks. 

And purple tongued it turns on Tyre

to swallow the whole hollow folktale

up to the head where, it is said,

the universe shrinks to strings of nothing.

0→∞

Now, it’s time to pick up an old guitar,

make it a chicken,

an old house cat,

a gift card,

a bird, a snake,

but no black noise

and without knowing what I’m doing!

(Geoffrey Mark Matthews 3 February 2023)