TE WAKING OF THE DRAGON

 

The yellow eye who witnessed                         

 

the blood sky,

the dirty breath;

 

the tumble of teeth

spat from the shocked ‘O’

of Teide’s mouth

as her tongue was cut,

myths from the earth’s belly

chaotically rebirthed

as towering monoliths

in the choke of bonedust;

 

scattered sculptures

slow-piped like unwieldy pillars of wet sand

elephant-folded,

 forever teetering;

 

spongy mounds of slow-stretched olivine dough

setting crystal-brittle;

 

observed, too, the sluggish seal,

the clog of dark tears groove her shoulder

before she slept.

 

From its blue watchtower,

it scopes the saucered crater still,

the frailty of its amniotic membrane;

 notes the baked knubs

of bubble-popped, bready pumice,

wind-shuffled from their mother;

 

spies us rummaging in her skirts,

cold flecks in the red-grey lava field.

Burns us, as we touch.

 

Fire loves fire.