STILL LIFE WITH VILLEINS AND IRIS

Once upon a time, there, lived a man all his life.

The wood, the thatch, the stones are washed away,

But underneath the iris stubs and rock, a knife

Or bowl or pot or broken cup could say

What was his daily bread. From the fields

Ralph came home, smelling like a horse or hay,

To swill his soup and want his wife

And laid her down, yes, every night

And went to sleep with bad dreams of the Devil

Riding the Scarlet Whore up steep and down.

Iris grow there now, their purple roots

Reach the nearest damp and, digging, clutch

At dreams of long ago and curl around the midden

Where he ate; and maybe some old bone that walked

Within the underling, chalks the flower white.