A hotel of turf is what he’d build.
The walls, the ceilings all formed
from peat still seeping as if with tea;
sodden bricks which would crisp
in the sun if packed and neatly stacked.
But his would remain fully filled with fluid
flowing from the living, breathing
bog beneath. All beds he’d weave
from still sprouting sphagnum
and windows dress with rushes black.
For breakfast, guests would feast
on vintage butter centuries old
- spread like chrism on best
soda bread - scooped from robust
baskets of blackened wicker
sunk in damp internment
for innumerable generations
where no living germ
could intrude. Chairs
would be chiseled
from millennia old oak.
and if the bronze-aged corpse
of a man ritually killed
should emerge with the butter
and the oak, he’d drink with it
the finest flavoured poteen
from water drawn near the body,
richer than any Hebridean spirit
priced as gold. And he’d sniff
the cadaver’s crown coiffured
with pine lacquer hauled three thousand
years or more ago across the Pyrenees
to decorate a prehistoric playboy
before the cuckcolds he’d made
unmade him with blows and cuts
as rhythmic as the scythes of work.