Survivor on the Back of the World
after Margaret Morrisson
Although I am a buck-goat
Stranded on the mountaintop
Over the lintel of the universe –
Black fog, visibility zero –
Things could be worse
As worse today they were
Down in the Georgian quarter
Where I lost my footing,
Oh these cloven flip-flops of mine,
Betwixt kerb and pavement
Outside Restaurant Patrick Guilbaud;
Two well-fed government ministers passing by,
Adjusted their sunglasses, passing on.
But now in the gutters high up
In the maelstrom of the mountain
Being ogled by flighty thunderstorms
I am safe from apparatchiks.
I am no scapegoat.
I am a survivor,
But my horns are not for sale:
Each is a sickle
Which I propose
Only to daughters of high birth
No matter how low
Their station on the mountain.
On a bad day on top of the world
I flash my eye-lashes
Back down the corrie
At the she-goat princesses of my day-dreams.
PS: If you – dear passer by –
Happen to be a well-fed government minister –
And you’re IN THE MOOD
Throw a black, white and gold rug over me –
I am proud of my glacier.
That will do. Merci.
2 July, 2014