A Myth
A myth
The thing I said was hardly what I meant—
Lord knows there are no prizes for intent.
There have been rumours of a gathering
and sights of distant figures vanishing
down corridors of golden glass
and green lights racing through the grass.
But we are like children, clumsy and late:
death is not immediate.
The serpent’s sealed beneath the floor,
the black dog whines behind the door.
The earth is deaf and damp and brown
in the forlorn furrows of the town:
is this how it feels to drown?
What we read was almost what was meant:
we’d better have another argument.
A giant makes a mighty sound
howling in the old playground—
who knew his giant heart would break
when heaven said it was a fake?
The dog is shut outside the gate:
death won’t be immediate.
There will still be time for a meeting
and hours of televised debating,
for some kind of marvellous mistake,
and for mother to go and bake
caterpillars in your birthday cake.
In the stars above the town
London Bridge comes tumbling down:
Lord forgive us if we drown.
The things I said were hardly worth a cent,
but anyway it does one good to vent.
We still hear of parties in the evening
in houses on the hilltops everlasting
and convoys gliding through the night
to put out fires left and right—
but the truth is far from sure.
A thump, a thump against the door:
who knew a broken heart could pound
with such a loud commanding sound?
The giant lets the dog inside,
shivering and runny-eyed;
the serpent circles the debate,
polite, discreet, considerate—
death won’t be immediate.
Why not, then, for old time’s sake,
let us off the hook, give us a break?
Hobbling footsore through the town,
wicked weather bearing down,
Lord still love us if we drown.
