As death     that spice of bitter mirth
& treason of the summer's treasury
smirks like a poison through the veinèd cup
& tips the sword-point of your misery
& gaily tippling     fever     laps it up
into the maelstrom     of a cardboard earth

Taste thy reward     O vengeful minister:
the playful sword shall pierce your own heart too
& as the streambed carries off your star
the scent of pennyroyal, celandine     & rue
hangs in the air     a muted melody,
an afterthought. Belated knight
your tragedy
is over.     --Ever born to set it right.



Is over--ever born to set it right--
revolves around again,     a globe
scrolled     with mummy     maple leaves
& sealed now     regal, mute     this orb
& bishopric     shall staff     your wooden flight
O donnish martyr     bringing in the sheaves

& mistress-master     Nobody     bereaves:
that admiral     coming home, one-armed
with ink     that Lazarus     his barn
undone     his sheepish camouflage     out-farmed
his one-eyed     giant rival (quite a blight)
puts out the sun     & leaves the field     all white

Henry Gould | Island Road 45 and 46
Contents | Mudlark No. 6