Merlin

He sits by a river under some elms

on green moss throwing speckled stones

or   if you choose   he can rattle some bones

in a magical cloth and read them

he can work with playing cards

or with the palm of your hand

even throw cowries into the sand

but he dislikes working with entrails

picture him wearing his conical hat

its comical pattern of three pointed stars

if you look deep in his eyes

you’ll see galaxies spiraling away

his morning customers are cuckolded drones

there’s no harm in change he charges them

but he lightens their load by throwing the stones

lady love is a dangerous mistress   

he sits by a river and the breezes that blow

are counting the fingers of oak leaves

lost in love’s labyrinth they go to see him

he shows them out   soothes their pride   their peeves

although he’s an expert on species

on herbs    flowers    quaint remedies

he never has understood romance

he’s always found love un-mathematical

when young scoundrels come in the evening

he’s getting tired   he’s had quite enough    love   

he tells them bluntly    deals low blows   sudden 

surprises comeuppances such as yours

he sits on a hillside under a moon

priapic staff pointing out its crescent

preferring to commune alone with stars

than shudder in solitary public bars

when owls glide by on noiseless wings

he takes off his cloak    launches up by stealth

into the sky to mingle with breezes   

as night sails on towards winter's wheezes

he exists out there in a spacious void

together with other life that has passed

in a miasmal-like colloid state

Merlin could tell us could we but ask

Copyright ©  Dick Russell 2014

(a different version published in

Chapman Vol III. No 4: Dick Russell issue, 

Editors: Walter Perrie, Joy Hendry, R. R. Calder

1975)