The Old Game
Scary, that weapon winding on its tall spring,
shell and spine of a tower, mill with no sails,
staircase without steps, wicker man, totem,
blank lighthouse looming high over the pier.
Can it hold back the sea - siege machine
hoiked to the very edge of winter waves?
Gnomes lurk, cajoling and grimacing
on the hidden stair. It is a dark climb:
it is us they trap, one by one in our curiosity.
Pell mell into the cell bundle him, trundle him
and out of the window harum scarum him
fear no colours, course him, trounce him
but you land with your mat like a cat,
all your lives ringing and singing inside you.
Page(s) 10
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- North, The
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