In sluggish, yeasty rivers, they glide like logs;
time laden. They sleep in mud, clogged
with a cruel sacredness. They lie and weep,
weep and lie, showing that grief's for fools,
and tears are trickery.
Dense and old, but moving fast to kill,
their only wisdom's stony memory. Still
cold and glassy eyes reproach
from long before we were us,
and other monsters were.
They swallow time, and, to keep them safe
their children too, so that their jaws
are cradles, and their mouths disgorge
the future. Their smile knows this.
And more, which you don't want to know.
Are you smiling?
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
6 comments:
"Are you smiling?"
You bet! My favorite part is the three lines before your question above: a perfectly drawn portrait of a creature whimsical, maternal and ominous, all at once.
One of my best remembered childhood songs, Never Smile at a Crocodile, has a line, "Don't be taken in by his toothy grin..."
Shivers of delight!
It's a very special smile born out of complacency at topping the food tree. And you're right: I don't want to know. What's frightening is the containment of extremes: all that sluggishness and weightiness combined with an ability to leap. Ah, a moment: I'll retire and open a pub called The Leaping Crocodile where I'll sit behind the bar and regard my customers with a saurian eye.
What a beautifully tailored match. There's quite a dance shaping up here.
I love the lines - their jaws
are cradles, and their mouths disgorge/ the future...
A medieval stonesmith could well have curled this image round one of the Church pillars you have photographed in Boxelder.
Lucy, may I quote from your response in a post at my blog?
Martha
Sinking my teeth into this wonderful wordsmithery ...
Post a Comment