The dragons flew to the village When the glaciers receeded. Before the humans came to found the village In the hills They all moved up the valley As the valley slowly heated – A conflict scratched by ancient claws And knapped by stone-age skills.
The dragons lived on cliff-tops, Where they found the up-draughts bracing, And yet up here upon the fells, the scarp Was ev’ry bit as steep The humans sought the uplands For protection and for grazing, With their wooded winding valleys And their moorlands full of sheep.
But the dragons had a taste for mutton, Raiding flocks and rustling folds – While the humans found the lizards rich, And slow when on their shanks. So they hunted ev’ry dragon That came sniffing round their barren holds, And they feasted on their breastmeat And they tanned their wings and flanks.
But down in the valley woodlands, Where the dragons couldn’t grace, So the tribes would coppice trees for fuel, As soon as the saplings bend. But the deer were a constant nuisance As they trampled through the place, And they nibbled the shoots at liberty, Refusing to be penned.
But Evolution played her hand, Ten thousand years or more, As she favoured drakes who favoured deer, Whose does were scarce in dearth. And the humans were quite happy If they thinned the herds a score, And all stayed-away from pastures And gave folks a wider berth.
So into the flightless forests they came, Where the trees would crowd the sky, And they stalked the stags upon all-fours, Or scampered up a tree. And their back legs grew more sturdy With a pouncing, kicking thigh, And their wings were less-times called-upon Beneath the canopy.
Yes, they still would glide above the valley, Though they rarely soared, As they rode upon the thermals And they roosted on the scarp. Their flaplings, once they’d left the nest Would gather in a horde, And would chase the rodents round the barns To keep their talons sharp.
The farmers even reckoned They had not the strength to leave, Now their flying was more like that of a hen Than of a lark. Good enough to get them airborne, Good enough to catch the breeze, But no good for migrating Once the days were getting dark.
Neither side were loners, In their small communities, As they looked-after their own, And yet would not harass the strays. And they’d sometimes come-together In those opportunities For the curious on both sides To regard their neighbours’ ways.
So by the Middle Ages, They had reached a careful dance, Where the humans let them hunt for rats and deer, By nature’s law. And yes, the windows in the church Showed George’s famous stance, Yet those self-same beasts proved lucrative When pilgrims watched in awe.
We’ve ringed the noses of our bulls Since the days of ancient Sumer, And blinged their ears with tagging tools Since the reign of George the Third. And sheep we’ve daubed with bright and dark Since Beau Peep was in bloomers, And likewise branding’s left its mark Since pharaohs watched the herd.
And long before the Roman Legion, Pigeons wore a metal tumour Round their ankles, through the season, As they carried vital word. And falcons showed their noble’s farms – And scientists confirmed the rumour Of migration, through the charms They fitted to each bird.
detail from John Kay, Inventor of the Fly Shuttle by Ford Madox-Brown
Ravelling
Penelope just cannot seem To stitch the seam to stop her shroud – She warps her wefts and weaves her wools, And intermingles through the crowd. But somehow, she can’t cast them off, Who lurk around her loom – They watch her fingers thread and pull, To work the fabric of her tomb.
The walls of Pompeii are all full of graffitos, Where Romans left scratches of slanderous hissings, And chalked-out each grievance like buzzing mosquitoes – But mostly left scribbles like dogs leave their pissings – Thousands of doodles from two thousand years ago, Scrawling on walls just to scream “Look at me !” The historians love them, for what they can show About what life was like in the First Century.
And it wasn’t only the cells and latrines – For nowhere was safe – not shops nor graves – It’s been the obsession of soldiers and teens, Since the hands-prints of ego were left in the caves. Even cathedrals had pilgrims who jeer, And localised rumour-reportages – So once a time, old Kilroy was here, While Chad kept a record of shortages.
So who are these Romani Ite Domums, With their slogans and sweary scrawls ? And why must they commandeer the commons, By spraying on public walls ? Yet those who condemn the tags the hardest – And the St George flags – then represent The likes of Banksy as a cutting-edge artist, (On a stolen canvas, and paying no rent).
But I must be honest with the street art fans – However old, scrub them out, unread. Don’t justify the hooligans And the anti-social stink they spread. Be honest, should the youths of today Have loose on your house, your car, your soul ? Or would you deny to the future the say Of the historic daubings of every troll ?
‘Reportages’ in the second verse is not French, so should be pronounced as ‘report + ages’ – four syllables, with stress on the ‘port’.
Where were the darts of Galilee ? And the damsels of the Rubicon ? Was Runnymede so needle-free, Or the Athens Woods of Oberon ? So where are all the dragonflies ? There’s not a word in tale or scroll – The Greeks and Romans closed their eyes, The monks and knights ignored them whole.
It took the new Enlightenment To even notice them at last – And then Romantics sought intent In Nature bold and wild and vast – Till Art Nouveau, which gave them wings That keeps them soaring till this day – As wardens of eternal springs, Where dreamy Summers while away.
So where were the dragonflies of Hermes ? Why no mention in the myths ? Why did Freyr not claim these flurries, Crafted by the finest smiths ? Perhaps the Bible’s just too dry For water-sprites as story-tools, But rainy Europe shouldn’t shy To catch the eye with flying jewels.
Transforming in among the reeds, A lit’ral metamorphosis – The fey-folk surely rode these steeds ?, Yet Brigid never knew such bliss. Shouldn’t the Devil have taken hold ?, Or gargoyles, say, or heraldry ? Yet where were the dragonflies of old ?, Who chirped and danced for nobody.
‘Adderbolt’ is the only earlier name for them that I couold find, and this only dates from 1483, according to the OED, and ‘Devil’s darning needle’ is only from 1809.
And finally, the image below is from a poster which looks reminiscent of others advertising the various Art Nouveau exhibitions at places like the V&A.cHowever, I cannot find out anything else about this particular image, and if it is even an original by William Morris. I hope it isn’t AI…
Roman Soldier with Vesuvius Erupting Behind by Peter Jackson – nothing to do with the poem, but too fun not to…
Custodia Golgothae
“Say ye, ‘his disciples came by night, and stole him away while we slept’.”
– Matthew 28:13
“You what ? You want we let you take The very thing we’re here to guard ? And claim we couldn’t keep awake, While you came by to simply shake The boulder from the tomb ? Have you a notion just how hard And noisy that would be ? Or how to fall asleep on duty Likely means our doom ?
Keep your shekels, keep your plot – And we shall keep our heads. For losing corpses, like as not, Is something that won’t be forgot – And fatal to behold. It’s late – best be off to your beds, And let the fallen rest. Remember him when at his best, Not when he’s lying cold.”
A modern reproduction of a terracotta Roman cup by Potted History
The Holy Grail
The cup was just another cup, And owned by just an inn. Its purpose was to hold the liquids Poured out of the skin.
It would be simple earthenware, With not a jewel in sight – A vessel meant to do a job, Like any other night.
It wasn’t the cup of a carpenter, For it never was his to own – But merely rented for the meal As a unremarked-on loan.
It would be washed and set at table, With a dozen more – And used by other lips tomorrow – That’s what cups are for…
Relics are just relics Of the talismans of old – Why the search for dreaming clays, And not the wines they hold ?
The Gospels often mention who is hosting Jesus for a meal, so the fact that they are silent on who provided the Upper Room for the Last Supper makes me think it could have been at an inn. And although this was a Passover meal, it seems unlikely the establishment would have kept a separate set of crockery just for one day. The vessels were probably made from the local terra rossa or marl clay, producing earthenware, with minimal decoration similar to that shown (albeit at the other end of the Empire).
And on a tangent, but isn’t it curious how obsessed we are with the grail that held the original wine, but couldn’t care less about the platter that held the original bread ?
Hush, little one, Don’t stir, don’t cry. Do you hear the soldiers passing by ? Do you hear the garrison Over the wall ? Tonight is their Winter free-for-all.
Little one, they have strange gods within We hear their tales, we hear their din. Tonight is a festival to one – Saturn, I think – a night of fun. And I saw Pilate come to behold – He was dressed in finest red and gold. And joining him, tonight at least, Was good King Herod, up for the feast.
Hush, little one, Don’t cry, don’t stir, I hear the tension, bitter as myrrh. I hear our rabbis, Hear their priests – Tonight, let’s hope they only feast.
Little one, we have a stranger pact In Jerusalem, where neither act To antagonise the delicate peace – But one year soon, all that may cease. And I saw Pilate, watching me – Waiting to see what it is I’ll be. And I saw Herod, watching you, Waiting to see what it is you’ll do.
Hush, little one, Don’t fret tonight, They sound too drunken for a fight. Perhaps their gods shall treat us kind, And leave just love and peace behind.
Rhyming Couplets 