STONE LORDS
Our tall hats, sky scraping, cloud stirring,
Raking, forming, our tall hats.
Our black hats, cliff-crag dark,
Storm dark, night full.
Our black hats.
Given by the lords of years,
These moving towers, rocking.
These watchtowers,
These habitations of watchers.
Given us.
Watchers, sky-full of silence.
Hawk-bright shaded eyes,
Biding behind dark brows,
We bide,
Dark browed.
We need not hands to raise against.
Need not fingers to point.
Nor voice to accuse,
Nor clever, subtle speech,
No invective.
Poise, presence,
Inscrutibility fledged beneath
The stern circle of dark rim.
Tall hats, dark hats, bestowing gravity,
Beacons of authority.
Rock dreaming,
Injected, a bolus of catastrophe.
We, the chorus,
Mocking your wriggled evacuations.
We shall never, as you will, now
Pass distraught, hand-wringing,
Rote excuse for skin.
We shall never squirm nor flutter,
Racing thither on dismal errand,
Bending brightness to aggrandise vapour,
Bending sense, roping goodness,
Making slave-chains to chafe the free.
Oh, we see clear.
We see your oily wishes,
Your sly agreements.
How you stain the day.
How you stain.
Our tall hats
Shall follow your ways.
Watch us on the heights.
Watch us circle dark valleys.
Unencumbered vigilence,
Patient for judgement,
Implacable,
Undeceived.
May your tiny,
Malevolent souls,
Naked and revealed,
Shrivel.
May your rights
Recycle to the innocent.
May the wheeling carrion birds
Revolve and clamour
Til you no more sully
This earth, this sky.
May you relinquish your folly
Before it plagues and howls,
Extirpating your breathing memory.
—-
Born from a recounted dream of handless beings guarding the clifftops from the perennial parastic politicians who wore tall black top hats. Reminded me of the crags of the Preseli hills, the watchers of Easter Island, the tall astronomically accurate solid gold hats of the Neolithic,
Of the cairns and tombstones of the quiet places, of the attentive wariness of those without voice…….
the image is from an Iron Age Celtic coin that seems to show a storm or mountain deity
simonhlilly 
Is this your artwork Simon! yesterdays artwork was most appealing!
Yes Sally, my drawings from Iron Age coin art. Just quick sketches,am trying out different ways to present the images without negating their own power snd composition….
Great ‘curse’ in the final stanza–“May your tiny / Malevolent souls, / Natked and revealed, / Shrivel. . . .”
Assuming politicians of any ilk do have souls.
The coin image reminds me of pre-written word-history cave art.
Well, the soul of a politician may live elsewhere from its sorry ass. Iron Age coin art owes much to all of Europe’s prehistoric forbears ( that may well be rests upon a common shamanic worldview).
IF they have souls to begin with is highly questionable. The more I consider world ‘events’ the more I doubt they do.
I wonder about that shared common shamanic worldview quite a bit. Ever sense it loitering, waiting just the other side of physical perception?
yes!
Tee hee
It is the nature of the deep mind, oceanic, vast, lying dreaming beneath the pedantic foppery of fashionable habits of thought. It is the engine, the body of sinew, the geometry of neurons, the long, glimmering night, the dragon’s steady, piercing eye, the palace with silver service laid out, waiting for Last Supper.
The angel on the road, the messenger in the night, the image in the mirror…