In Pockthorpe

TWO POEMS

IN POCKTHORPE

So this was that old woman's home

Twenty years back-from this she'd come

With horrifying speec that no

Wooden leg could render slow.

Through any noisy crowd I could

Hear that tapping stump of wood;

No matter how the crowd stood thick

She whisked a passage, quick-quick-quick.

And twenty years cannot suffice

To dim the menace of her eyes,

The worse for being large and blue-

Two holes for something to glare through

Near which no man's thought ever went

But fell back shuddering. Neatness lent

Only more terror to her small

Mushroom hat and crimson shawl.

The ghost that haunts.a house at will

Would cause no fear if he stood still,

Fixed in his place; but fear is cast

Upon our minds because he passed.

So that last time I heard you come,

You strange old woman, like a drum

In a march to the gallows, from your slum,

No grudge against me could you owe;

Yet as we passed you whispered low,

Hissed with face averted, then

Stopped and spoke to a knot of men

Who stared, while on you stamped so quick,

As though you'd called me lunatic.

Half-dazed, I watched you vanish quite,

Feeling you'd left behind a blight

To smirch my name-as though a deep

Of crime in you had called from sleep

A depth in me that no one knew,

Whispering to that to follow you.