Nine Poems

Freehold

He dodges huge mercies;
believes he hears them pad
and snuffle in his tracks.

He gives thanks for small mercies,
revering their light formality,
sensing his unplumbed modesty.

His indoor woolly hat
is untroubled by sweat or snow
and free of twigs and leaves.

Friend and servant join
hands in his walking stick,
his sceptre, caduceus, staff.

He nods at the tight smile
of double-bolted doors
and sets the alarm for Doomsday.
...