The Shadow-Pimp

I thought, ‘Had I this body of my Hope

Coffined, earthed up, and out of ken;

This false friend whispering at the elbow,

Pointing horizonward, stunting the scope

Of here and now; this pimp of shadow,

Dream and futility: – then might I win

A mellow, chimney-corner ease.

No more my thought would go with the high branches

Fingering at the moon. I would have release

From the not quite desperate despair that clutches

Hope’s hem like a starving child.

My clock would be a register

Of minutes each sucked dry, of hours beguiled

To glow upon me placidly

As evening light in the stillroom on pewter.

Time would not lag, thus, pregnant with a burden

Of clogged expectancy.’

So I rose up one night and strangled Hope,

Buried him twelve foot deep at the end of the garden.

I might have known one cannot cope

With such. Next day the grim persistent spark

Came bodied out anew in windier boast

And promise, whispering at my elbow;

Pointing my heart towards the fruitless dark …

I suppose I must take this too substantial ghost

For undivorceable bed fellow.