You like my bird-sung gardens: wings and flowers;
Calm landscapes for emotion; star-lit lawns;
And Youth against the sun-rise ... Not profound;
But such a haunting music in the sound:
Do it once more; it helps us to forget.
Last night I dreamt an old recurring scene
Some complex out of childhood; (sex, of course!)
I cant remember how the trouble starts;
And then Im running blindly in the sun
Down the old orchard, and theres something cruel
Chasing me; someone roused to a grim pursuit
Of clumsy anger ... Crash! Im through the fence
And thrusting wildly down the wood thats dense
With woven green of safety; paths that wind
Moss-grown from glade to glade; and far behind,
One thwarted yell; then silence. Ive escaped.
Thats where it used to stop. Last night I went
Onward until the trees were dark and huge,
And I was lost, cut off from all return
By swamps and birdless jungles. Id no chance
Of getting home for tea. I woke with shivers,
And thought of crocodiles in crawling rivers.
Some day Ill build (more ruggedly than Doughty)
A dark tremendous song youll never hear.
My beard will be a snow-storm, drifting whiter
On bowed, prophetic shoulders, year by year.
And some will say, His work has grown so dreary.
Others, He used to be a charming writer.
And you, my friend, will query
Why cant you cut it short, you pompous blighter?
