Drunk beside the vast Loch,
a fool has lost his pretty.
In circles, he knocks upon turtle shells,
and queries the gypsies who gather locusts by lamplight.

He breaks the locks from the temple,
magnifying his just outrage so -
the metal men take over, but without result.

Indeed, the sage neither chirp nor shine,
none bother to warn of the heavy
waves upon trodden paths,
up damp steps of timber and rock,
to doorways behind which many proud Vikings are bred.

So the degree of his folly is figured
by the lights of gee-gaws;
the gold of the virgin lad, largely unexploited;
the credulous youth meets the cold pearl
of his Muse in the deep water,
He struggles, despite the cruel mother of all giving,
who glows rubies and diamonds -- below;

the heavy metal - the ambiance tempers,
the ambiance tempers -- the youth.
A greater value, new-found.


© Carlton Godbold 1987

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