I entered the ruin to a low hum…
The snug fit of my arms in the portal vectors was no accident.
Once inserted an irreversible chain reaction commenced.
The stone and wood around me shifted into old form:
The screen before my face showed a small orange planet, turning in space.
The hieroglyphs overhead read Mine-Sweeper…
Thinking the words was enough to initiate the familiar
of passing solar systems.
Three light speeds later and the low hum again indicated arrival.
White-Glare flooded the craft.
“Welcome back, Agent Blonde. How goes it with Urantia?”
“Not good, Ma’am…”
‘The Witch’, they called her but she minded not, tending to her herbs and the animals and birds which nature’s highest intelligence brought to the garden of her single roomed house knowing her abilities to hold and to heal…
It started slowly.
A black stain on the stone and the gentle glooping of mud or oil disturbed by rising vapours.
But by noon the single roomed house had begun to rise through the air…
She peered from a window of the house, now tower, at the receding garden, far below, and smiled.
Unfurling her wings she hopped from the window…
Now they had unleashed the hounds the outcome of the chase was inevitable.
One shard of memory alone held hope…
Slipping into the museum without paying could only encourage capture…
The dark arches spoke of deep secrets too arcane to delineate…
Out of the shadowy recesses a thin form materialised.
Did that wan smile ever waver?
I stuffed the loose package between clammy fingers and turned to leave…
“Clavis!” she hissed, and disappeared.
Already the concierge was blocking my exit with his bulk…
Outside the wild yelps and bays rose in anticipation…
Was that laughter I heard amid the fury?
“We still don’t know how they did it, or why, or even if they really did it or not…
…We do know that for at least two thousand years these sort of monuments were a preoccupation, were the preoccupation of a world wide culture.
And then they were not!
The traditional supposition is climate change.
But there is another way to look it.
One that involves teleology…
And a change of state…
Amphibians can live in water and on land.
What would we call a creature that lives neither in nor out of time but somewhere between?”…
The first key…
Bigger than me…
and inside, a box; identical but smaller, in order to fit, with another key.
Key number two…
As big as you…
whose mote is my beam, now clearly seen as I click the lock and find inside another box, identical but smaller…
Key number three…
What will we see…
as we flick the lock and peer inside the box? A heart, blood red and still beating…
The ground starts to shake with footfalls much bigger than me and a large eye appears at the church window.
‘Fee… Fi… Fo… Fum…’ says the Giant.
The moving finger,
tells, the time…
“The moving finger tells the time, what?”
“The moving finger tells the time,
to slow down, or to hurry up!”
In the Land of the Living Heart, Angus was playing ball.
The sphere of light span and soared in and around and about his aura, as he juggled, and laughed… like tiny bells, chiming.
Just then, the Dagda went by, enveloped in cloud…
He stopped frowning when he saw Angus, “On my head, son!” he said.
With a flick of his fore-finger Angus propelled the sphere of light towards the Dagda who rose, majestically, through the air… and missed it!
The sphere splattered against the Rainbow Bridge, momentarily colouring the atmosphere…
Angus shrugged, “It’s not like we can ask for it back.”
…Moments later the bars of blue light shimmered into three tightly clad figures.
Kirk, glanced expectantly around the room and sighed.
Spock arched a well manicured eye-brow skyward.
“An empty writing room,” pronounced Sulu, somewhat redundantly.
Kirk’s hand held communication unit twittered into life.
“Better check the co-ordinates on that one Scottie, I asked for ‘enterprising room’, dammit!”
Meantime, Spock had slithered over to the window and was peering through the white-blue light.
“Captain, no, wait…”
“What is it Spock?” asked Kirk moving toward the window.
“Well, it’s life Jim, but…” smiled Sulu, who was already there.
Scryer of Time.
On sky weathered stone
our accidental tourist has stepped
through long horned, shaggy coated, cattle
to glean and ponder
the sun in rippled grain:
no shadow cast
from this bright interior’s sheen
the mountain top of yonder earth
Should an eagle become an egg
beyond that outer maelstrom
of troubled cloud
and return heather dusted
head space full
of truth’s sweet, fragrant lie
lipped to life’s cold scrutiny
in a fluid bowl of vision.
to ground and save us one and all:
Scryer of Time.
I am the Imp
My electric-blue eyes
Can see clearly
In the dark…
I can see those who come to my cave to play,
and those who come to learn.
I can see those who come to my cave for fun,
and those who come for fame.
I see those who are utterly
incapable of giving me a name.
But whether or not you believe in me,
to me, it is all the same…
I am the Imp
My electric-blue eyes
See you all, clearly,
In the dark.