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3. St George and Various Dragons

this is St George's Square
not exactly
that is by no means
quadrilateral but I doubt
that wyvern whacker
would be worried
any more than pigeons
by its dimensions
though St Christopher (that was)
might feel aggrieved by its name
on account of the near continual
tide of travellers

there is a station

there are taxis

there are buses

there are people

an hotel

etcetera

a lion stalking
over a roof

and do you know insists Harvey Stubbs
that some nights in the month
at most particular hours and elevations
the moon shines through that lion's guts?

Harvey is careful
of his image
his pork-pie hat
tweed jacket jeans
green and purple trainers

he is notable

by his presence
as is the lion
and the absence
of wyverns

A great lion came from far away:
it was huge like a silence,
thirsty, hungry for blood,
and behind its posturing
it had fire like a house has,
it burned like a mountain of Osorno.

the lion
wanders through
a squall of rain,
prowling the kingdom
of his roof
stares down on
the migrant herds
that graze and roam
the square
and Harvey Stubbs
waiting
for the gates
of the Railway Tavern
to be unbarred

and you would be well advised
not to laugh at Harvey
and his fashions
he knows that death
is not an option
smiles
into his beer
and when he ambles
towards Northumberland Street
to cash his giro
winks at the king of beasts

It found only solitude
roared from uncertainty, from hunger -
the only thing to eat was air,
...air the colour of birds,
unacceptable sustenance.

behind the elegant façade
of the station a train
disgorges and engorges
but Harvey Stubbs
is not apparent
not a trainspotter
or twitcher
or counter of pennies
and his liberality
extends and extends
given any fraction
of an opportunity
as does an imagination
more comprehensive
than the entire railway network
which is to say
he's just an ordinary bloke

Flo Stubbs is just after
coming from the Olde Hatte
and a chat & sup
steers a course
for the Head of Steam
to wait for Harvey on
his evening rounds
sits by a window
with a glass of red
and for no reason whatsoever
is filled with a torment
of unweathered joy
and even when
she spots her Harvey
under his pork-pie
still holds her lips
in a sensuous smile
even greets him with a nod
and doesn't bother to ignore
Barrabas Sykes
leering from the bar

Sad lion from another planet,
...with only an empty maw
some out-of-work claws
and a tail like a feather duster.

St. George according to tradition
was born in Palestine and martyred
at Lydda circa Ad 323 and there's no evidence
that he is related to Harvey Stubbs
who was born in Outlane circa AD 1948
is a brickie and his mother
was a martyr to arthritis
nor is there anything in the rumour
that he is descended from Jean Louis
André Theodore Géricault who painted
battles wrecks and the insane
though Barrabas Sykes could be

it is entirely possible
that Harvey is descended
from Robin Hood
as one grandmother
came from Barnsdale
and was a Fletcher

but there's no doubt
that Harvey Stubbs is related
by the trade of his hands
and head to men
who laid each block
of stone on stone
who raised
the station's columns
reared the Lion's Chambers
to the sky
carved the old king
of beasts
who smothered in the smog
is now replaced
by a fibre-casted
offspring or such-like
and Harvey likes to think
he hears it roar
the nights the storms
fall down upon the town
from Bolster Moor
and Scapegoat Hill

the symbols
of Flo's ancestry
are in strong hands
like those that milked
the scrawny cows that grazed
here when it was a field
it seems the generations will roll on
as Flo and Harve have raised their brood
of five two boys two girls and one
who hasn't yet made up its mind

The Head of Steam
is warming up for
Blues Night
and the instruments
creep in and take
their stand accompanied
by those who pluck
their strings or blow
or finger keys beat
messages on drums

Flo has a partiality
for blues taken
with G & T
or vodka on the rocks
while Harvey says it's better
with real ale that holds
the bitterness of life and magic
in the essence of its breath

the night rolls on
the air is beaten
by the 'Stormy Monday Blues'
'Cocaine' and 'Help Me'
'Let The Good Times Roll'
'Rock Me Baby' 'Mannish Boy'
'Crossroads' 'Sweet Home Chicago'
'Everyday I Have The Blues'

the clock ticks
on an empty face
the sad songs soothe
with heart-ease
patrons of the pub
entangled in a skein
of sound a world
that's shrunken
to this space

the music dies
glasses are gathered up
a spell is busted
time comes barging in

outside
the moon rides
on the lion's back
shines on the taxis
in their ranks
casts a lop-sided
and half-lidded eye
on the bricks and stone
of Odersfelt