(W. H. A.)
It is all there. The victim broods,
Her friends take up the attitudes
Right for disaster;
The winsome rescuer draws his sword,
While from the svelte, impassive fjord
Breaches terrific, dense and bored
The usual monster.
When gilt-edged hopes are selling short,
Virtue’s devalued, and the swart
Avenger rises,
We know there’ll always be those two
Strolling away without a clue,
Discussing earnestly the view
Or fat-stock prices.
To either hand the crisis throws
Its human quirks and gestures. Those
Are not essential.
Look rather at the oafish Dread,
The Cloud-man come to strike it dead,
Armed with a sword and gorgon’s head –
Magic’s credentials.
White on the rocks, Andromeda.
Mother had presumed too far.
The deep lost patience.
The nightmare ground its teeth. The saviour
Went in. A winning hit. All over.
Parents and friends stood round to offer
Congratulations.
But when the vast delusions break
Upon you from the central lake,
You’ll be less lucky.
I’d not advise you to believe
There’s a slick op. to end your grief
Or any nick-of-time reprieve.
For you, unlikely.