Wednesday, December 17, 2014

Daughter of This Land

Thy veil, oh daughter of this land, is plush and rich, and it has been set about with branches of Cornish palms and with flowers of rose and bindweed. Thy lips of honey and currants taste, and of apples too. The air about thee smells sweet of tea olive, and thy cheeks glow bright as the orchid of the Hebrides. The form of thy body is cut, as from Anglesey's stone, and thy belly soft and curved as the hills of Devon. The flesh about thee is soft and smooth as the midlands' fields, and warm like woolen woven by the hands of angels and their kin.

With eyes like stones pulled from each the Thames and Tyne and a smile which gleameth like Britania's blade thou ignitest within me a flame, a burning which wouldst fell the most chaste of men and bring them to weakness. A brow which is strong, and gentle yet excites such flame as to burn through all of the forests. Hands like mighty Dover's cliffs and delicate with not so much as a single flaw, and shaped by the skill of a master.

My Muse, my love, my darling, my sweet, and my inspiration art thou. From thee doth come my prose, inspired, and to thee do I owe my passion, eternal.

I am, and shall be all consumedly yours,


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