I. Tales of Wood and Iron
i. The Three Feathers
Night and day, for all God’s
children, the same star
dawn to dreaming, a little
breath between
light’s constancy
and the cold dark.
In those times, the king our father,
old and weak, set a task
deciding the kingdom − a textile woven of
time itself
to be found and returned to this throne.
…Dumbkin
my brothers’ name for me − Dumbkin.
And they, older, quick as their hawks, their
friends
with kingdoms of
their own, who could blame them, blame anyone
for thinking the crown least fit
for the slow boy
hanging back.
But our father, long a leveller, took us to
the balcony, saying,
Here, in the sustenance of your becoming,
to this end these feathers fly,
and one by one three
feathers
went, and my brothers too,
quick as their hawks,
followed east and west,
but the last feather
sank slowly to wild thorn
just beyond the castle walls.
My
brothers laughing, Such a journey,
Dumbkin.
I
climbed down the prickly crag
and
found the feather fallen by a trapdoor in the rock, a door
bound with nettle string.
landing clump in heavy dust, and then
could see the other door,
set deeper in the rock, and to my
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK a
lady-voice −
‘Who
calls on Prune-Feet
Fetching Time
Who stirs the syrup − no
meat
Too green, no red heart so
sublime
Keeps us from our visitor’
With a touch the door drew
back, and there a toad,
a pond slime bag of warts
big as grain sacks stuffed
for winter, asked
my business, and hearing
this, she sent
a clutch of hoppers, little
croakers with mushy heaves
pushing a box into the
light,
and opening it she sang,
‘Who
calls on Prune-Feet
Fetching Time
This thready thread, this
weave complete
I give you for the asking,
sublime
Past mortal skills’
I
looked, to see a carpet no human ever saw
and thanked the lady-green
and took it, climbing as I’d
come.
The
others meanwhile, travelling not a mile
in
their directions, found wenches at their work, demanding
the poor girls’ coarse cloth
skirts as trade
to leave them be,
my brothers never thinking
who could know
a weft of time from
ravelling jute.
Except
the king
who ruled, For this design and its return, against
these roughs of hemp-weave, it’s fair the youngest shall
inherit.
My brothers spewed, they
retched,
they clapped their heads
until the bones shot blood.
They wailed, Not Dumbkin, no, not this dolt
who picks his nose for snacks, Dumbkin Dumbkin no.
And the king our father
thought,
and thought, and knew his
first-born twins
but hoped for better,
saying, A new trial then,
this for a ring rounded with eternity
and this trial is the last.
*
The feathers flew, one east,
one west,
my brothers too, and I, and
mine, again a little way
to prise the door into the
rock, and knock.
‘Who
calls on Prune-Feet
Fetching Time
A rounding sun and moon, a
fit so neat
And pattern so sublime
It sets along a path of
gold’
And
brought a ring so perfect the air around it shown.
And my brothers, loafing
where their feathers fell,
each took a wheel rim from a
cart, old iron hoops
they beat to clanking
bangles
large as leg-iron stays
only a dumbkin might think
true to trial…
The
king compared, and said, The boy’s is
best
and no mistake, here it ends, it’s his
this kingdom, each has had his chance and choice.
My brothers spat, they shat
and shied,
their hair they jerked in
bloody clumps, No
not Dumbkin, this shit streak with a warty nose
not him not him.
The king our father, taking
three feathers,
shouted, This I proclaim, and I swear now the last
I’ll live to see – a woman
of such beauty the world itself must stop
and turn again in wonder – who brings her here, inherits.
East,
west, again the door, and through.
‘Who
calls on Prune-Feet
Fetching Time
To fashion what never was,
beat
Toady
froth into sublime
And subtle form, human, and
for you’
And hoppers came, her little
ones, and brought a root
scooped clean and cinched to
six sleek mice,
and then I saw a little toad
climb in,
and instantly
instead of root and mice six
horses stood,
and coach, and within the
coach
a lady looking back at me
and of such beauty the world
turned back.
I kissed her mouth, and
lady-green’s, and thanked her
one last time.
*
My brothers stood before the
throne,
two peasant girls in tow,
and said, Dumbkin’s gone,
he’ll not return, what woman
would settle for runty eyes and breath like yellow runs −
choose one of us, when you’re dead we’ll share alike,
these girls are plain, but game − for us they’ll do.
Before
the king our father answered
the coach appeared, and with
it
the
world turning back, a thready thread,
a
rounding sun and moon
and me, Dumbkin.
My
brothers leapt through old iron hoops
and
disappeared, the peasant girls screamed and ran, the king
my father standing, said, An end, and now,
these trials too hard that take my sons
and tell heavily against my own weak will.
…Dumbkin
my brothers’ name for me, Dumbkin.
I who rule, and know time’s
weave,
and the way of climbing
down, and back,
as night and day, for all
God’s children, the same star
dawn to dreaming, a little
breath between
light’s constancy
and the cold dark.
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