257. CARTWHEELS AND THE CRAZY

CARTWHEELS AND THE CRAZY
The afternoon sun had already left
and the relaxed shade of a late afternoon
came rushing in : lemon-drop soup and
the shoes the maid had worn were all that
was left of worthlessness. I was askance
at nothing, and I sweetly dozed while the
old pick-axe swayed. Lithesome music
came drifting in.
-
It was all different before the war.
I'd not yet committed Little Gidding
to memory - that Eliot poem presuming
to tell me of air-raids and shelters. I was still
a young boy in a sparse suburb of Londontown.
-
Felpham Manor, William Blake, Fuseli and all
the rest meant nothing to me then. I sprinted like
a horsemen to the charred kingdom's chambers:
torture and reprieve and then torture again.
-
'The eagle soars in the summit of Heaven,
the Hunter with his dogs pursues his circuit.'
('This is your mystery, man. Take it
for all it is worth')...