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Olumo Rock
The lid of a pot all night on the boil
Has ceased to pound before noon
For fled with the moon
Are the denizens of turmoil
But froth-spilling over beneath
Their sceptre-tongued fire
Laps the bracken-heath.
Stone reared on the crest of Olumo
And far-out-flung by lightning-hand
On a witch’s errand,
Will it not sod-soften, thaw
Or loosen to pulp and peat
When the cauldron cracks for heat ?
O mother, my mother overprest,
Dancing on your sweat-wet laps
One self-soured by unsterile paps,
Come suckle him on dry breast
Now smoke-clouds, curly-furled,
Leap to flames round him early-whorled.
So blest be my loving-unloved flesh,
That fanned so long in flames of passion
Lapping futile for consummation,
Turns this pillar of ash ;
But curst my heart that stubborn
As Joan’s yearns and wouldn’t burn.
— John Pepper Clark
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