Just inland from the port of Olgamshore,
just seaward of Amalgam, was a town
that looked upland to fill its barley store,
but owed its store of fish to Olgam Sound.
Category Archives: Amalgam
A robin roosted in the cherry eaves
atop the tower of Amalgam’s Hall,
and made its nest of bones and holly leaves,
securing it with mud against the wall.
A blanket-weaver from the eastern hills
sold forty quilts for three Amalgam jacks:
He did not charge an extra for the frills,
but dropped the price by one to counter tax.
Amalgam’s calendar was brought to court:
in counting out the seasons, it fell short.
Its harvest was too far into the frost,
and every year some farmer’s crop was lost.
Over Amalgam’s noon a call was heard
that was no robin, jay, or other bird.
The priests knelt down and prayed to God for luck;
the monks then shrugged and said it was a duck.
The minty taste Amalgam’s root mondray
holds in its flesh grows stronger as it dries:
a cool but bitter flavor that they say
can soothe a burn or kill a dozen flies.
Twelve hours made the old Amalgam day:
first three to warn the people of the Sun,
six more to work under Its fiery sway,
and three to feel the slavery was done.
The pink-white heart of Allien di Cambrose,
preserved by pale Amalgam’s Nectine monks,
displayed on Summer solstice with a rose,
is said to have been made of swine-throat chunks.
A poison seeped into Amalgam’s well
that bit our throats and made our faces swell,
then left us with a fear of what we drink
and cleaning of the well on which to think.
Twice to the town I named Amalgam came
a man who had a face and yet no name.
His conversation stung us like a bee
and yet he left us healthier than he.