THREE POEMS
DRAGONS ,
Wyvern, chimera, basilisk and cockatrice, Dragons still terrible but dead, The first inhabitants that built
Their nests on mountains running salt And hung their inland caves with seaweed Gathered from pastures rough with ice.
They were exclusive, chose to live singly, Frightening each other with their stings, Their killing glances and their noise But shy and sensitive to trespass, Evolving hotter breath and wider wings To keep the hatching world away.
They lost : the sea drew back, The planets burst and fell like rain That silted down through time and space Leaving an ordered sky, the stars in place, Tides harnessed to the moon And beaches littered with creation's wrack.
It was peaceful enough at first And tired of pulling faces at a world That mirrored no aggression but their own The dragons let their armaments run down, Grew fat and shed their scales in summer moult; - Too soon, before they knew the worst.
Settlers came and tattooed seamen, Trappers who dug pits and killed With poison, unmarried girls who tied Themselves to rocks and cried For help: the dragons perished in their own cold Blood, the simple victors bore away the women.
The last dragon was dispatched in mid-career, Hauled through the province,
Butchered and buried with a civic scroll Listing his pedigree, his crimes and final will And no man saw the forfeit of his innocence Until he found himself to be the dragon's heir.
PHILIP OAKES
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