Fata Morgana: 

from mist she is risen.

Tor stone, babel draws

a glimpse of darkling tales.

Where neolithic shamans 

cast the runes and tracked the lines.

And to those that know

see the moon light flow, 

quicksilver on the stony tracks.

Tarot tower, lightning

struck. Bodies

falling, tumbling into

Glastonbury’s occult night.

No longer a church 

more than tower.

A long dead sea:

this isle of apples.

To the west the sweet track,

its oak planks made a way,

Albion’s first road.

©️ Dai Fry Rewritten 12th October 2020.

Fata Morgana: 

from mist is risen.

Tor stone babel draws,  

a glimpse of darkling tales.

Where neolithic shamans 

cast runes, tracked lines.

Thickened blood shadow,

cloak wrapped pitching lands.

Hawthorn spikes hold

back, the night verdure.

Dreams riven in situ.

And moon light flows,

quicksilver stony tracks.

Tarot tower, lightning

struck. Bodies

falling, tumbling into

Glastonbury’s occult night.

No longer a church 

but more than tower.

From Somerset’s level,

long dead sea:

this island of apples.

To the west the sweet track

its oak ways, the

world’s first road.

On the level.

Leave your daisy chains, a

sprig of wild flowers.

Gift a posy against

plague riven days.

In new age velvets

to solstice light witches flock,

smoking hippies drift

and intellectuals

in moth loved jumpers, stifle

yawns of Jungian bliss.

©️ Dai Fry 22nd May 2020.