Poetry
Asaph
ASAPH lived on a bare mountain :
The wind bit him, and he cried. The wind bit him, or crept slowly Beneath his coat from side to side Until he cried.
Spiders came with dusty bodies More than twice their common size : The uneven cracks in the stone flooring Rose and struck between his eyes.
The mountain vapours through the keyhole - Came and twined about his throat. Mice ran out to watch his misery And spiders hurried down to gloat.
His body ached, eyes, teeth, and hair ; His body ached in every joint. He saw the atoms in his foot-stool, Each a black and lifeless point : And each point became an adder Spitting out its angry fumes : Then with cold complete hypocrisy Each its earlier shape assumes.
The wind stops ; the spiders vanish ; Pain stops in every nerve ; And the world stands bare and sullen, Featureless with fierce reserve.
All things hate him : all things labour
By manifold mysterious ways To find some unforeseen affliction To persecute him all his days.
But, see the roof is failing, falling, The walls rush in about his face. Outside the sky treads coldly, coldly, By slow regression through endless space.
ALAN PORTER.
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