His Dog and Pilgrim

I

I am trotting

where I should,

and light, upright

in soldierhood

I am his own

so faithful known

in dogly good

my own, his too,

his one

and none so true:

like son, like father,

or if rather

brother,

not a tother

but a one

and he is mine

‘a visage fair

and voice as rare’

so faithful known

—would never be

not mangy, skulking

at Toms Hope, Cum See

at best to take off

dancing ‘here I go’

—laughing and so

to names like Long Dick,

Tell Bill and Willie

argh, but himself

since he had wish to take

he took in hand,

argh, walking he walk far

—he, I, we not go back.

where he is what is

which I am but for,

here, at heel now

hear and smell and see:

not wonder longer shorter

but do what that one man

any one thing he tells me

for this did, nary done

that he must take and be

and both to come,

and both become

to each, all his adventures

—saunter and run

and roll and yell, go

for his reward:

for his reward,

not to be bored.

oh God, oh keep from he

II

amicus amorous

—the good brave generous

and clever dog, bright boy!

—but oh you bagabond,

you poor old slavey chap

poor crackpot, addled

classical lost heart!

not fast and loose

but deep and douce,

but humbly liquefied

drop-eared and sorry-eyed

by foot or lap or

it will never do

—he asking fondly for

some kind or kin

or kindled godliness,

some goodly fondleness

not knowing that

it will not do, be

howso we go in grace

silk air and sun

of summer, taking and

a walk, my ride

my hop, my read and rite

—and rumbles, tumbles

turns here to be shrewd

panting importantly

sitting down hastily

to itch, then on

to such collating

snufflicating, dating

what all they, every one

gone said and done:

‘sez he? said that, she did?

indeed and wuz it and

how could, who would

so drrivvel?’

I’ll quote and add

my note, adds nothing

to sign the same

turn round and scratch the ground

stiffly with hinder claws,

mutter and bristle hence

that too misguided

ghost, fool dog and his

impertinence, his

then the more diligently

ambles and rambles by

and a broken fence

my cobwebs floating

whispers more intense

at every corner

my tale, my toll of

parts, my fantrumpology

my stump and routine

pass time and plenty

fluid, it a play

of fighting, biting,

my grunting it a flyting

with this and that and

wherefore if I at any time sound

wanting or obtuse

be understood I am

and much the more because,

or none the less albeit

not wanting wantonly,

but haunted, bitten

hoping some complete

change of condition.

—yet dog on, jog on

jig up and go by

with my old banner up

gambolling easier

than hanging in there

gnawed at though with him,

feels also made to be

never out nor in

III

Rock was his name

and Rock I knows

not driven away

by grief or grame

or dainty dame,

but cast to walk and pray

—and so we left for good.

(well, have you pleased I

can be of use?)

to shun society

and walk in piety

he carries all,

and carries on his back

a pilgrim’s pack

was bearded, had

eyes that were set

wide and well back

(and they were all right, oh

they were quite

as usual, happily un-

knees up, and all through

my love not marred

so methoughts I

wagged my tail and

dreamed of that

saw this master

so had the stick and pack

was bearded, had

set wide and back.

walls high up raise

from the cracks

—the yellow smelling weed

he look sitting

bent and spread

wide his knees:

within on thigh

round it pressed

found that guest

that grows on him,

sweating swelling

—I sniffing gingerly

baron’s board

bring him bread

IV

well, have you pleased I

and good, and can so run

when he sick-dead

and done and god-forsaken?

—and can so read and can so run

when stank so naciously

and saw no clear

and off I speed

and found and feed

so I, we here again

not like we fear

and dead man he gone up,

and take a few steps, one and

—and far away is near, and blue

of mountains, blue

by under near the sea

all is sweet, all is clear

and now foranever we

walk and away and

—look, you’ll see

him stand as for a picture

standing with his hat

put off and slung, and wooden

and shows the sore

up on his bare thigh:

the tunic lifted and held by,

grey duffle hanging by his knee,

the russet hose undone and down,

pulled down to low above the knee

he looks at you, ignoring me

and on the smooth

pale skin displays

below the groin

that visitation

discoloured, spiteful

or rotten-ripe, a plum

bruised or a nasty jewel

or blind a broken-lidded eye

that leers away confidingly,

as if it thought back to itself:

‘well, they can see—

without me…’

V

—shows me the way to praise

yea sweeten, all one heart!

I not the dog I was

quondam in days a-yore

but still put on

all my old bag of tricks

and up my banner

my leg to spare

my more than four

my silk in the air

for now, who is this hound?

why I could swear

the story an old story,

but happens to be me

who sit and sigh and

then stretch out and snuffle,

all give up and lie

and see by dreams we save

whole populations

his voice, his face

he opens to their grace

and so forth and amen and

don’t you know

without ‘that’, we and it

without, to wit

his walk had be

no more than mine,

by me and with, his

unguilty, on all fours

not me and mine

but he, the righter

‘silly one’

he so do this, do that

stay here, go here, go on

and lasting light