In Perpetua Mobile

1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 On squall-struck Rathlin Island,
Hard fast for Jury, Isle and Kintyre,
Robert the Bruce took his rowboat shelter,
In the sea splashed fissure of the dripping cave,
And there he watched a spider throw a gossamer web,
And vault-climb high on uncontrolled ambition,
Far up the reticulated thread,
Only to fall, and climb, and fall again,
Until at last she reached her arachnid heights,
Undizzied by achievement.
So take heart all ye who are relegated,
For are we not all like that relentless spider?
Are we not all the embodiment of the Philosopher’s Search,
Sought since the first fair dawn of scented Mother Earth?
Are we not the secret of Perpetual Motion?
Are we not that alchemic occult energy
That, sleepless, pulses for Aeternity
In an inexorable surge of force?
Are we not the Philosopher’s Stone dressed in gossamer?
The beatific harmoniser of all contradiction and difference,
The Celestial Revelation of the Infinite in all its blinding glory,
When the Beast becomes a God,
When the lion lies down with the lamb,
And when the relegated will rise again –
For are we not The Relegated?
In Perpetua Mobile.

Source: https://footballpoets.org/poems/in-perpetua-mobile/