Musk
Ambroxan
White tea
Woody notes
Earthy notes
Frankincense
Lemon zest
Myrrh
Red clover
Hemlock
Floyd
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38
The Fog Over the Meadows of Tara
Marr meandered in loops through the dense mist. It had been hovering over the hill of Tara for hours, perhaps even for 5000 years, who knows. It is Ireland. In any case, there was nothing in the fog, no monolithic screaming stone of fate, no gate to the spirits of the hostages, and not the Ark either. Just fog, billions of musky molecules, intoxicated by sweet little clover blossoms, bitter herbs, balsamic spicy myrrh, and mouse urine. Sometimes Marr thought he saw banana chocolate, an unripe large green shell, a vision before him. But there was nothing but damp earth, wild herb swarming in the meadows along the archaic procession path, and just this cloud of musk mouse myrrh, somehow fresh.
Then Marr was overtaken by a fever, the fog became more resinous, sweeter, silently wandering the Iron Age spirits, the Irish high kings, pagan priests in incense through the damp grasses, laying down old woods as signs of a ceremony, flowing balsam streams, perhaps white tea for hours through earth and meadows.
(With thanks to ChopIsland)
Then Marr was overtaken by a fever, the fog became more resinous, sweeter, silently wandering the Iron Age spirits, the Irish high kings, pagan priests in incense through the damp grasses, laying down old woods as signs of a ceremony, flowing balsam streams, perhaps white tea for hours through earth and meadows.
(With thanks to ChopIsland)
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