The Land That Tom Forgot

Hammer to the chisel, to the wood

Hopefully those faces will come out again

Sprites and Nymphs

I've known flowing from my brush

Enticing me to a summer sleep

"Go to sleep" they say

"We'll lay you to the ground"

Tingle of their dust

Intoxicatingly erotic

They sit on mushrooms

They disappear into the ritual

Torches and whistles in hand and mouth

I'm leading them in procession

this is Dreamtime

The great snakes stop in their tracks blinded

Choking on my stones and gems

lying dead over wormwood

I wait for their painted bodies to appear

Only faint hollers and chirps remain