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Notes12/28/2020
Floyd
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Floyd
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39
The mist over the meadows of Tara
Marr meandered in figure eights through the thick haze. It had been hovering over the hill at Tara for hours, or perhaps for five thousand years, who knew. It's Ireland. Anyway, there was nothing in the mist, no monolithic screaming doom stone, no gateway to the spirits of the hostages, and no ark. Just mist, billions of musky molecules drunk on sweet little clover flowers, bitter herbs, balsamic spicy myrrh and mouse urine. Sometimes Marr thought he saw banana chocolate, an unripe great green shell, an apparition before him. But there was nothing but damp earth, wild herbaceous swarming in the meadows along the archaic processional path, and that very cloud of musk-mouse myrrh, somehow fresh.
Then a fever overtook Marr, the mist now grew more resinous, sweeter, wandered silently the Iron Age spirits, the Irish High Kings, pagan priests in incense through the damp grasses, laid down ancient timbers as signs of ceremony, flowed streams of balsam, perhaps white tea for hours through earth and meadows.
(With thanks to ChopIsland)
Then a fever overtook Marr, the mist now grew more resinous, sweeter, wandered silently the Iron Age spirits, the Irish High Kings, pagan priests in incense through the damp grasses, laid down ancient timbers as signs of ceremony, flowed streams of balsam, perhaps white tea for hours through earth and meadows.
(With thanks to ChopIsland)
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