I have no home, neither hat nor hollow.
I have feet bare in the moist dust.
My hair tangles at my neck.
I am way worn, travel as I must.
At the cross roads comes a chance meeting,
Asking not for hope, but only a moment’s clasp.
I am cynical of the old greeting
Making no try for love, under my self-mask.
But
if I seem a sore tried waif,
Let me introduce my friend,
in a cloak of yellow weeds
with ice at his nose end.
His house is a brown hat
Dragged over one grazed ear,
Teeth single, and the rough matt
Of his beard wet with his swamp-beer.
Was
it once my way to be aloof and romantic?
I have shed that, since I am not material
For the princess role, but only the natural
The corn child, born for a spring burial.
I
am open armed for my companion, the dirty summer.
The joker on trial, the green clown, fawns to the chief mummer.
Freda
Davis 2009 |
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