The Ancient One.

I am the scion of an ancient race

custodians of a barren place

Slopes of jagged black obsidian,

like centuries we slowly pace.

Through clouds of sulphurous gasses

we feed on emerald coloured grasses

Our heads wrinkled and ophidian,

Project, beneath a heavy carapace.

Lumbering round the lip

Of a lazy steam spewing giant,

It is upon the breath

Of this dying god,

Our survival is reliant.

From my vantage I have seen

Along with my disappearing kind

Men carried in wooden leviathans,

The origin of species here to find.

Should I decide

to leave my world,

venture to another land

I'd plod down to the sand

And float out upon the tide.

Rather I choose, here to remain

Innured, to stifling heat and stinging rain,

Two centuries have I endured

In such a hostile, weird terrain.

We remaining wizened beasts

Are an order of monastic priests

For whom each new season brings,

Fresh rituals and feasts.

Though litanies we cannot sing

For we are mute.

RM Clarkson