Revenge
Once in a meadow, under a strong sun I played, high on the slope of buttercups; Unarmed sentinel, waiting to give word When enemy horsemen rounded the wood, And then, fierce general, to lead the rush, Leaping the boulders of the green hummocks, On foot among the chargers. But merciful, I forbade slaughter, restored the broken swords, And marched away leading a doubled host, And willed the trampled grass bloodless again.
Just now, in a dream, I gained the meadow's brim, Heading tired columns to your defence Against the danger I had guessed for you.
Down to the wood the yellow-dotted grass Ran without a sign, unmarked by you; All fields anywhere unmarked by you. Far off a wash of smoke faded to air, The image of your burning and departure.
Not in the slipping spirals of the brain, But in the real meadow is my answer: What sour ghost, the bigot of one battle, Could not forgive my version, but conspired To fleer my infant clemency with murder? What marvel is this of human malice, that waits Twenty years to end its shabby feud, Then is content with a few unreal seconds?
If it is human, if it is ended. KINGSLEY AMIS.
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