Hob - Richard Dawson

We ascended the foaming stair

To the mouth of the Hobthrush’s cave

Decanted the hot wine from a nanny’s throat

And placed loaves on the greasy stones

Our baby’s lips are blue

Our baby’s eyes grow dim

Take it off!

Take it off!

Take it off — the whooping cough

And we’d be your eternal debtors

As the doorway drew near our eldest appeared

With a bundle in her arms

It was clutching her tresses and nuzzling her breast

And the colour was returned

I used to hold him in the palm of one hand

Now he’s grown as tall as I am

With the face of his mother veiled in downy gold

On the broad shoulders of a man

He is strong with the second sight

In these parts held in some renown

Using words not his own he veraciously foretold

Of a drought when the stream was bulging

When the pictures become too real

He buries his nose in the bush of my beard

And gently pinches my earlobe between thumb and forefinger

Until the present is restored

At the murmur of dawn there’s a knock at the door

And a small man standing by

He is wearing a dogshide and flies for a crown

One good eye a sparkling well in his brow

I’d already acquainted myself of that voice

Before he’d even spoke:

«I have come to collect what is rightfully owed

Rouse the boy from slept

Get him bathed and dressed

It is time he kept your end of the bargain»

The bargain