O Cornish country
And the corpse of
a dog
A place called Plymouth
People pleased to
turn to stone
Iron needle idolizers
On shores born
without the sun
But how long can we go
Until caught by
crooked cops, parading so convincingly
And marched into the moor
Eternally marooned
with the old Merry Maidens
Those sentinels that have dotted the shurblands for
centuries
The stoic
bystanders to history’s end
Your own language is losing itself
Afflicted with the
voices of the Angles
Victims of wolfish vagrants vying for power
Harking, hemming,
and hawing
While the moor fills with dust and stone
O Bodmin! The bubble of your flesh
Where did the Barons go?
Or those ancient proud Earls
Escaped like unbound eagles
Hiding under the Hurlers
Those haunted spirit houses
A human ego thought humbled
Until reestablishing Eden
With envy-streaked eyes, downcast
And sighing
And starting all over again.
