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Here I am, an old man in a dry month,Here I am, an old man in a dry month
Here I am, an old man in a dry month, Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain. I was neither at the hot gates Nor fought in the warm rain Nor knee deep in the salt marsh, heaving a cutlass, Bitten by flies, fought. My house is a decayed house, And the Jew squats on the window sill, the owner, Spawned in some estaminet of Antwerp, Blistered in Brussels, patched and peeled in London. The goat coughs at night in the field overhead; Rocks, moss, stonecrop, iron, mends. The woman keeps the kitchen, makes tea, Sneezes at evening, poking the peevish gutter. I am an old man, A dull head among windy spaces. Signs are taken for wonders. ‘We would see a sign!’ The word within a word, unable to speak a word, Swaddled with darkness. In the juvenescence of the year Came Christ the tiger In depraved May, dogwood and chestnut, flowering judas,
Here I am, an old man in a dry month, I am being read to by a boy, waiting for rain. I was not at the hot gates Nor did I fight in the warm rain Nor was I knee deep in the salt marsh, lifting a cutlass, Bitten by flies, I fought. My house is a decayed house, And the Jew sits on the window sill, the owner, Born in a café in Antwerp, Damaged in Brussels, patched and peeling in London. The goat coughs at night in the field above; Rocks, moss, stonecrop, iron, repair. The woman manages the kitchen, makes tea, Sneezes in the evening, poking the annoying gutter. I am an old man, A dull head in windy spaces. Signs are seen as wonders. 'We would see a sign!' The word within a word, unable to say a word, Wrapped in darkness. In the youth of the year Came Christ the tiger In corrupt May, dogwood and chestnut, blooming judas,