[ai] time * [ɪ] in [ʌ/ ʊ] up [ɒ] fog [i:] screen [əʊ] road [e/ eə:] them
[ɑ:] arm [ei] gate [ɜː] world [ʊə/ u/ u:] moves [au] shroud [æ] ash
[ɔː/ ɔɪ ] lawn
The Last Mummer
Carries
a
stone
in
his
pocket,
an ash-plant
under
his
arm.
Moves out of the fog
on the lawn, pad up the terrace.
The
luminous
screen
in
the
corner
has
them
charmed
in
a ring
so he stands a long time behind them.
St. George, Beelzebub and Jack Straw
Can’t
be conjured
from
mist.
He catches
the stick
in his fist
and,
shrouded,
starts
beating
the bars
of
the gate.
His
boots
crack
the
road.
The stone
clatters
down
off
the slates.
II
He came trammelled
in the taboos of the country
picking
a nice
way
through
the
long
toils
of
blood
and feuding.
His tongue went whoring
among the civil tongues,
he had an eye for weather-eyes
at
cross-roads
and lane-ends
and could
don
manners
at a flutter of curtains.
His straw mask and hunch were fabulous
disappearing
beyond
the lamplit
slabs
of
a
yard.
III
You
dream
a cricket
in
the hearth
and cockroach
on
the floor,
a
line
of mummers
marching
out
the door
as
the
lamp
flares
in the draught.
Melted
snow
off their
feet
leaves
you
in
peace.
Again
an
old
year
dies
on
your hearthstone,
for good
luck.
The moon's
host
elevated
in
a monstrance
of holly
trees,
he
makes dark
tracks,
who
had
untousled a first dewy path
|
into the summer grazing. |