16: Bardic Mission

Pendragon sword, Lord Ollamh of the North,
Returns in testing times, to safety wrest
From causeways of god-awful Ragnarok;
Embroidering six colours into words
I contemplated Hoo’s expanding wings,
Variegated unto royalty;
While gently snipping psilocibyn stalks
Across the mossy-dappl’d turf I rose,
Heaving my heart up heather, moors & crags,
To sit beneath the wide gates of heaven,
Stirr’d into silence by some dreadful thought,
These islands might yet perish, hope yet lives,
Wordhordes Shakespeare wrought, morals Milton swore,
Inspiring drastic futurology
Helping dictate the way the world should be,
An elevation’s beneficial change,
The raison d’etre of the better bards,
Whenever signs & omens overbear
Pendragon poetry parleys with hearts,
Its truth-beknighted clarion calls souls
As if blown to Tara’s triennial
Where scholars, chiefs & bards & petty kings,
Raise up cloud-houses from the Danaan mists
Where all dwell high in peaceful solitude
To ruminate on overarching world
& matters of importance – in this block
Of poetry, come people, meet your minds.

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