(I don’t write poetry often. Mostly because mine stinks.)
Who needs wizards or witches? I told them all myself
Back at the start. The story front to back.
Well, not the part about the apple. That
Gave even me a shock.
But in the end
It worked out as I warned them.
Princesses! What matters it to dwarfs
How ladies live or die? No princess ever born
Would spend a sigh on any dwarf that lives. Oh,
She might laugh to see
Us trudging up the street
Or spare a moment’s pity.
But in our sagging cottage? To bring a princess in
Is to shift all. Her beauty makes our home
A donkey’s stall. The brush, the broom, the soap
And paint are not enough.
She calls it good,
But dreams of silk and marble.
You think a princess born would be content to bide
In this rude shed? With seven ugly half-men?
When in her head a thousand ballads cry
To fetch her to her own?
You cannot hold
An eaglet in an anthill.
Oh, you may dream in secret things unspoken;
Dwarfs are Ygg’s worms. Sight is not enough.
We yearn to swarm. We lust to hold and touch
The buttery weight of gold,
The silver star,
Or any other heart-sweet.
And now she’s gone. The tall one came and pinched her
Just as I reckoned. Now our house is vast,
And vastly vacant. Spiders drape in corners.
Dust drifts in cupboards.
And washing would remind us.