I’ve seen him emerge from oblivion,
like a miner out of the pithead,
after downing Lord knows how much over
the odds, a champ like Stakhanov.
Shirt singed by the fires of Hades,
and black in the face with horror.
But cleaned up, laundered, and sober,
a pedant he was, a fusspot –
washing dishes in good hot water,
mopping up the last little dust-mote.
The desk in apple-pie order.
Style and syntax clipped and sorted.
Those nit-picking letters, neatly
notated in tiny penpricks.
I didn’t resent his needling.
For he knew that at any instant
he could plunge back down again, gagging,
to dark filth and revolting chaos.
Poor old D! He had to be ready –
here’s what fuelled his rage for order –
he could never forget that maybe
the next time he might not be able
from the pit up to daylight to haul,
but would choke on his own blood in Hell.
4 March 2002