Elizabeth Hall
Volume 4
‘Nevermore’ quoth the bird,
Wisdom speaks and beak ceases
To strike. A Black streak which
Undergirds England’s lease on life.
These denizens of rocky dens,
Hermits of the wild,
Now clipped, stripped, flightless,
God’s messengers defiled.
Atlas upholding the power
Of solar unsetting’s bower.
Inky Rapunzels trained.
‘If the Ravens leave the tower
England will fall” the gray beard
Prophesied – perhaps he just liked
To hear them cry:
Nevermore
will the Ravens leave…
Wilderness chained and tamed,
Last prisoners who remain,
Result of fatephobic fame.
Man and country’s fall’s prevented
By a cunning fix of fate.
Tradition’s tome a feathered cover
Chained: body mods an iron gate.
A living breathing British Tarshish,
Eyes grown dead and cold.
Condemned priests of norse religion,
Deflocked and disrobed.
All the tourists gawk and gasp,
Squeak and squawk and buy.
Take 1000 photographs,
Condemn them not to die.
Nevermore will England pray
To God. There is no need.
The Ravens are in the Tower
And they can never leave.