Edwin Watkins
THE RAT THAT DIED AT CHRISTMAS
A season's leavings trampled by the wind
Invite the rat; and he will pillage them.
Sure he will get the nut, but will he find
Most secret, deep in him,
The winter will that, bashful as a maid,
Suffers the mortal conscience to invade
Our secret feeding mind?
Winter will hunt him: day on day the rain
Plays in the leaves, and at their vital part
Goes like a hungry bird. The rat within
Being furtive, shy at heart,
Skitters in fright if but a thistle spring
And does not know a tightening web is strung
About his usual pain.
And if he die, winter will wrap him round
That wraps the living rodent in his nest;
That saves the baby darkly in the womb
Lays fathoms on his breast.
How can he know, when winter shakes the wood,
The bitter fire that flickers in the blood?
Immaculate, and dumb
A rat must seek his haven and the bed
Where he may die. Cold fingers on the field
Searching the lonely trough where he is laid
Come close to him, and hold.
