Attack of the Inscape
(Mr John Clare’s 20/25 vision)
by John Gallas
Went for a walk – the old canal –
the mud-mulched towpath – bleariness above –
chance of rain – the long duck-runway
metalled-grey between crook-ivied oaks
& holly-furze, all still as writings on the air.
No Hound, no prattling Friend today,
no puzzlements, no pipe, no hums, no hahs,
no careful-of-this, no heedless-of-that …
just me – unoccupied; a soft machine
shovelled out of old practicals and musement,
& passed along the path, vulnerable as a jelly.
So the world rolled by, leaf, stock & stone,
a bobbed-wire tunnel of amaze –
each root & thorn an ecstasy,
each silver ripple cutting at my quick, each weed
a wound of what it was, in my unarmoured self.
I took my scourge in quiet part.
My blood was moved. I gushed like saints.
A trinity of ducks skidded,
scalpel-keen, down the waterway.
Oak & holly caught eye-fire.
I got to Blackcopse Bridge, & had and hurt enough –
& in my quiet house, while the end of Sunday
slid its last, long light along the flags
& out the open door, my small white walls
applied like bandages the salve of common ways,
returning to my too-flayed heart
a kinder kind of amble,
& plainer company.
The sky turned grey. I took a pipe; & took the outside air;
& nursed the precious scab of my poor self inside my chair.