A View From The Senate

Lime grey sea of sirens clatters,
Low burnt shores of ancient bone,
Cresting rooves, a Masons' ship,
Which somehow sails on words alone.

Bittersweet rot of pipe tobacco,
Cleave the heady sulphrous air,
Taken by the lying kings;
Faces blackened in despair.

Fjord awash with clanking wrecks,
Towers of a place since drowned,
Upon the ridge the Temple stands,
To hear the sigh of Stour Sound.

Sway the boughs of ashen trees,
Painted with a tarnished gold,
Erase the sweeps of clay borne waves,
Forever destined to be old.

And though the dome is earthen grey,
Silver light bursts from the sky,
Though no man lives through time and tide,
The Masons' crew can never die.