The Master-Stroke

As Queen Mab’s mad to fly,
             the axe must spilt
the hazelnut, loose the brain of its meat,

make the hollow shell a wagon
             with butterfly-wing upholstery,
her gilded fly itching at the reins.

You know she’ll burrow
             into skulls of dreaming men;
make them ache for shadows?

Of course you do.
             And the earth alone is too much.
In Bedlam, i’th cage, there’s still too much:

the Crazy Janes, their shit and squalls,
             and just this patch of grass you’ve watched
9 years now - nettle-daisy crowned, God’s spy.

You see the faerie-folk process,
             genie-faced and gypsy -
the dandies, tatterdemalions and junketeers,
 
fay woodsmen, wenches, dragonfly trumpeters, 
             tinker, tailor, leering satyr -
with their hubble-bubble pipes,

torn uniforms, queer stares, 
             this teeming life amongst the grubs
advances in its trance, your trance…

Poor fool.  In your prison you’ll wear out
             the packs and sects of great ones,
but never find a spell that undoes you.

What wounded flower did this?
What potion did they put upon your eyes?