SUPPER’S READY

Sand-washed horizons have never cloaked you
so cerise as this night.
Dry, rocky bowls and hollows,
gigantic peaks, never beckoned you so.
And yet the would-be voyager
in apparel of a similar hue
is drawn to the wrinkled hand of Earth Mother,
the chill of polar permafrost
dialling into the radiating core
of its molten lava heart.
Magma mama.

The hand that wears the ring of eternity
stirs the broth and breaks the bread.
I crumble and coalesce,
de-focus and reassess.
Do we blindly follow?
The porridge of uncertainty is burning on the hob,
bubble away, smorgasbord
of pot pourri!
Host. Ascension.
Tempus rerum imperator.
Come eat and drink with me!