Whereby Rik revels in free-association verse, in commemoration of the day one hundred and five years prior when, as instructed by his bride, Mr Crowley began the process of committing his Liber Legis unto the ink.
I am not your Pan, rather
a shadow, mud-stained, thrust amid
with new shoots sickly green,
a weave of roots. I am not
your shade - though if you wish
it shall be done: each twitch
an echo of your arch, your bone.
I found a god enrocked;
he called me, veins of silver
strum by salts, a hand outheld
to gather me, succour, snout
to yielding sand. Indentures
caught the brow mid-turn -
an echo of vats, basins; pots
These pipes - so cold they freeze
my tune, each note a glob. Ice
chimes; teardrop charms. Am I
dead yet? Impress my bones,
fill my light dents, wine stains;
flame me. I am mists of shade -
I am your Pan: I echo your gloam.