Dragon playing the harp, wooden boss at Lacock Abbey, picture by Gillian Spragg
A wilderness of wings, bright glints of fire,
Dry wood burns fast, and long desire,
Coiled into curlicues, coins, a cup,
A thief in the night that drew me up.
What would I sing when the harp goes round?
An old wyrm’s tale of underground?
Or a song of rising in spiralled flight,
Wide wings that flash with reflected light?
Or the human heroes who came so bold,
To challenge us and to steal our gold,
Who bade us fight them beneath the sun?
You know the names of the few who won.
I could sing of our wait till the final days
Till the root take flame in triumphant blaze
And the world-tree fall and the rainbow bend
And gods kill giants, and all things end.
My claws on the harp draw out each chord
Darkness, waiting coiled, the hoard,
A wilderness of wings, bright glints of fire
Dry wood burns fast, and long desire.
9th October 2014
