The Gifted Child

The dumb man tells a blind child’s dream… And the crowd listens. What a sight! What blindness!

…

She loved smelling rusted iron bars
Misty breeze at break of dawn
Dusty curtains faded in sun
Damp soil on a showery dusk
And moss grown on crumbling walls.

The moonlit night that she was born
It was dung her feet first stepped on.

In childhood quite stubborn a girl
In soot-black frocks and soot-black socks
In puberty, a debauched maid in love–
Like all miners, loved the touch of rocks
Now she’s but a cynical matron
Swearing oft ‘by the lice in Jove’s!’

Yet, she ever remained a gifted child
Seeds she sowed would never fail
Nimbus she called would always fall.

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