The Jet-Set

Nestled in the valley, in the Bay of the Beacon. Hidden in vaults where visuals display. Blackened bountiful tear-drops suspended, for hungry eyes an optic delight. Oh vision. Oh wonder, dark-light in our lives, seeking, craving, wanting and purchased.

Ex-miners became,
the new artisans of beauty,
fashioned and carved
the tillings away.

A monkey-puzzle tree washed up on our shorelines, sinking and compressing provides evidence for all time. The jet-set ever vigilant of immigrant imitation, the clues are in the scrapings, of wet and dry paper. Ah yes. There's the rub.
Ginger is good but darker is not.

Victoria proved Queenly the need for darkened splendour.
Her duty demanded adornments be worn,
with sorrow in her heart, grim-faced and steadfast
She mourns. She mourns, for her freshly lost love.

Along the many miles, in the jurassic coastline,
forests declined and laid down to die.
Forgotten posts made solid and calcified,
becoming new treasure with the eons in the distance.
Waiting underneath for artistic endevour,
seen by a man of venerable stature.
With a bede in his eye,
he uses talismans to keep the serpents at bay.

The Bronze-ians showed the way, pointing ever forward.
Pillars and posts and collapsing ceilings,
leave tell-tale signs, the workings from the past.
Slivers that slither between the rocky out-croppings,
a vein seems golden in another's greedy eyes.
So the jet-set took off and soared in the ether,
becoming a favourite of the hoi-polloi