Returning from a raid,
just missed the tower
where, over the West Door
the Wild Man with oak leaves
wound round his body
faces the Dragon
wreathed in vines.
Crash landed at Church Farm,
ploughing itself in,
churning up the loam.
Two crew dead.
The Flight Engineer
periodically revisits
the old country, resuming
his portion of the pasture.
by Jeremy Hooker
from ‘Debris‘ a sequence of poems
Last night the sea heaved up a creature,
one I could not explain.
Half-boat, half-animal it seemed:
ribs of rusted tin, skull smooth as plastic.
My daughter played in its house of bones,
bouncing pebbles like syllables ringing.
She kept asking its name, how old was it?
Was it a dragon? Oil like blood dripped.
‘I don’t know!’ I said (sounding unscientific):
she pulled out bolts of its neck to sit on.
I pursued it in books: the Bible dumb.
She ran in and out of its tunnel of questions.
by Mike Jenkins
from A Dissident Voice
Mary Mary Makebelieve
kept a dragon up her sleeve:
when she’d been despatched to bed,
gave it supper, so she said.
‘Oh,’ her Dad and Mum would cry,
‘Mary! What a dreadful lie!’
Nothing she could say or do
would persuade them it was true.
Mary Mary Makebelieve
posted titbits up her sleeve:
anything that she could find,
crusts, and bits of bacon rind,
Anything that it would take –
buttered toast and birthday cake.
And that dragon grew and grew…
as you might expect it to.
Strong, it grew, and even stronger.
She could cover it no longer,
for it simply poked its head
through her jersey. Things were said.
‘Mary! What is that you’ve got?
It’s a DRAGON, is it not?
We don’t want such creatures here.
Make it – make it disappear.’
Mary tried… but Mary couldn’t.
(Was it, do you think, she WOULDN’T?)
Anyway, the dragon stayed
making everyone dismayed.
Till, at last, they all agreed
it was REAL. Then, indeed,
it rose, and slashed the roof, and rent
a ragged gap, and ROARED, and WENT.
Mary Mary Makebelieve
keeps a hanky up her sleeve,
now. She is discreet and shy.
Only, sometimes, in her eye
You can see a sort of green
shimmer, such as might have been
if a dragon were about.
One day, she might let it out.
– by Jean Kenward
‘What can I do?’ young dragon cried.
‘Although I’ve simply tried and tried,
It doesn’t matter how hard I blow,
I can not get my fire to go!’
‘Open your mouth!’ his mother said.
‘It’s no wonder!’ Your throat’s not red.
Your scales are cold. You must be ill.
I think you must have caught a chill.’
The doctor came. He looked and said,
‘You’ll need a day or two in bed.
Your temperature’s down. No doubt,
That’s the reason your fire’s gone out.
Just drink this petrol. Chew these nails.
They’ll help you to warm up your scales.
Just take it easy. Watch TV
You’ll soon be right as rain, you’ll see.’
Young dragon did as he was told
And soon his scales stopped feeling cold.
Hee sneezed some sparks. His face glowed bright.
He coughed and set the sheets alight.
‘Oh dear!’ he cried. ‘I’ve burnt the bed!’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ his mother said.
‘Those sheets were old. Go out and play.
Just watch where you breathe fire today!’
– by Derek Stuart
Rambling At The Bridge Head 