You may grasp for the gold under the soil

and all the platinum from the ground,

take whatever diamonds you need to impress, the coal the oil

take the flesh from my back if you wish, pound after pound.

Riches after all make this world go round.

The art of purchase, of ownership, of wealth and prosperity,

the conformation of a life well lived, of the jewel laden echo after the sound;

long may you reign, I will cheer if you wish but it’s not the life for me.

Born under a moon-raker sky,

a long line of foolish country men

who saw the richness of the heavens in their duck pond

and who fell screaming wet for the heaven’s own lie,

as they saw the moon fall to Earth time and time again,

of material earthy riches you can keep, for the stars I am not fond.

Ian D. Hall 2015