(I. "Did the grey climacteric...")

JOHN COTTON

FRAGMENTS

I

Did the grey climacteric beast have to choose

that time to make iron forest of the country

of the soul? Its great foot-prints in the ooze

of our susceptibilities, it lumbered

and crushed that ton of pachydermic pig,

leaning with a sigh of laboured air

hot with the stench of fermenting jungles.

Insensitive as stones the small eyes stared

from the mud caked plates of its armoured hide.

u

Yet they say the horn it bears still retains

regenerative magic. Have we come to this,

that only our superstitions will help us?

Flying south, the tops of the Rockies float

like islands in the milky sea of clouds,

and we leave the scorched grass of winter

to arrive where the soft air of Louisiana

is rich after rain with honeysuckle and birds.

The spirit elevates and time slackens.