Perimeter Guard
His second two-hour duty: the wind
Is now stropped to such
Fine and steely sharpness that
It might slice off a shriveled lobe or finger.
The stars are brilliant chippings of frozen flint,
Beautiful, but quite indifferent
To sublunar hurt.
His stunned toes are welded together;
He is club-footed
By the weather.
The only
Nostrum for such misery and loneliness
Is found in fantasies of somewhere other,
A feminine place, not erotic
But warm, motherly.
Lavender-scented pillow and sheets;
No gruff blankets there;
Soft wool, a cool counterpane
Of candlewick that soothed an infant fever;
Sweet, unsnoring dark.
He shuts his eyes against
The stars' impersonal derision
And the wind's malice.
Then dream and the silence are broken
By a sound beyond
The wire and his eyes are filled
With star-sparks like frozen tears; unsure he calls
'Halt! Who goes there?'
No one answers. The glitter
Melts from his eyes; then he hears the wind
Whisper: 'Foe!...Foe!...Foe!...'
Vernon Scannell
Dylan Thomas Country
A bowl of seasons at the hills' feet,
A helmet of weathers;
At night the white owl, fat and shining,
Blinks among scattered crumbs and trinkets
And the sleepless sea
Over and over sighs and surrenders.
This day decides on rising to sort summer;
It comes out dancing;
The green dress shimmers with relucent beads;
Little house and enormous horses
Whinny their waking;
...
Read Full Article
|
