Dead Lions And Living Dogs.

It is oft remarked a a living dog

Is preferable to dead dead lion.

While on a battlefield this is doubtless, true

In art I cannot hold that view.

When the day has almost melted

Into cool embrace of night

It is my singular delight,

To visit the Lion's boneyard.

The ancient gates so easily yield

To a gentle well placed push,

That silent splendour, long concealed

Presently, once more revealed,

broken monuments and weathered stones

A climbing frame for vine and bush.

There upon their great, grey biers

Lie the company of countless years

Fly-flayed of flesh, bleached-white bones

In many pleasing arrangements rest.

Some sit with heads 'twixt erstwhile paws,

Still possessed of curling onyx claws

While others repose upon their side

A comfortable eternity to abide,

In undisturbed well-merited peace.

Though many more appear to writhe

With twisted spines and lolling heads

In extremis upon their marble beds,

Exposing milk-white teeth in chalcedony jaws.

The more recent ones are more complete

Though all are pleasingly free of meat,

the older ones are a mysterious jumble

Their very bones have begun to crumble.

For the elements

time's instruments,

have pleased themselves to reclaim

Their well proportioned remnants

Along with their golden manes.

For some have endured such a lengthy exposure

In this tenebrous enclosure

To the twin nurturers of playful rain and golden rays,

That lacking ribs and vertebrae

The only recognizable feature

Is the pitted skull of the stately creature

Whose hollow sockets are now entwined,

With creeping scented eglantine

Thus sweetness reclaims strength.

Alone now once again

Here in my hand the earthly remains

Of one of my gilded graceful beasts.

In closing a book with faded leaves

I close the gates of my beloved necropolis

And steal away before dawn,

lest I fall prey to the living dogs.

RM Clarkson.