Dragon and Dragon-Fly
A candle-end, and two odd high-heeled shoes. (Fetish for candlelight worship?) Near them a crate Of half-drunk wine that must have been filched. I had run The tramp's-earth to earth.
He had nailed the windows blind with a sheet. The stone Lay pitted, clumsy, on the floor. The cottage was sodden With damp and dark. Its plaster melting back To earth.
On the earth, a cellophane sack of rags, And the two odd shoes.
When I heard the unshorn beast Drenched with rain and drink—heard his heavy Breath and tread, hand like a root flung At the unhinged door, then I doffed my grey Gloves-and-topper, fluent French and all my Knowledge and disguises, yes I dreaded I threaded
I sped to the rafters. 'I spy snake or dove That hunts in the Dead Wood,' he cried. 'Being A human being, You Are That.' I replied. `Save your sayings for the tombstone-mason,' he
says • Stooping: 'The pigeons here have wings of glass.' And the bottles begin to fly. Dead Men Soar like Elijah or rockets. Winged I fell To the vintage and candle-butt. My black hands root In the rags all night for something I do not find, But I know it is heavy as a stone.
Later, when morning Twined its grey up the cold shreds of cloud. And I shaved my sea-wrack beard, as I stood Downing at my dove waistcoat, my glance fell On the heels on the floor.
JOHN HOLLOWAY
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