A man's work

I dreamt, my man Hobbs, of your return; that you were here one very noon, no different from how you left: in a state of distraction and your winter coat. The name Nanuk rimmed your face in the guise of hood-fur. You said, I need to learn to live in the moment, but what I end up doing is fixing my earrings and thinking of you. In the street, sirens arranged themselves in procession. Guernica, you muttered, in mimic of how I always complain, What is this, Beirut? You left the earrings as crumbs for the birds, sparrows and hens; pulled a scarf out of your sleeve's throat; relegated the husband to a neutral corner. John, you said, the darkness surrounds us, what can we do against it, or else, shall we and why not. Drive, you said, with no map but whimsy and no famous last words but, Don't wait for me, Argentina.

I dreamt I milled and mulled in wait for you outside your dressing room, like a thin Patagonian left to hold your coat in a museum while you ran off to pee like the dickens. All this was in keeping with custom: you slipped into a gown of moss, you polished red your clogs. I cursed the stage crew - assassins. We do it just for decoration, they shrugged, by way of explanation for their blinding lighting. I'm going back to the stars, you sang, tinkering with someone else’s lyrics, reforming them to your own liking. To tame time I began the fairy tale about the mousewife who had never heard of the stars, and when she saw them shining she thought at first they must be new brass buttons. In this fashion night began to gather between my breasts, but still your door's arthritic joints did not break their regime of hush. And then, playing my belly-drum to remind your heart to beat, I startled myself from sleep the way geese startle off a lake. In the dusty distance over my shoulders, a man called, I shoulda brought my gun, the streets is wild tonight. A motorcycle idled, spent as a bull in the aftermath of red; alleys skirmished to get a glimpse of you; barrels bloomed into beehives. Windowsills swooned, I swear, into fantasies of being wooed by you. And the relentless posture of lampposts is sprung from the loins of soldiers and your eyes’ gleam; and wheelbarrows want to apprentice themselves to your lilt of step; and I want to drink, but only gall and only with you; and let us talk, prince, one fairy tale character to another, while we skim milling geese off a saucerful of lake made milk by moon and the women fetch forth whimsy from the holds of wells and ships.

Yours forever and ever,
John Clare