Ghost-bereft With other stories and studies in verse: By Jane Barlow |
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THE WRONG MAN |
 | Ghost-bereft |  |
113
THE WRONG MAN
Where wild-heaped rubble o'erpeers the pit-mouth black
He sits half dazed, scarce recking what betid
Since round his gang crashed roof and wall in wrack—
Long since, it seems, so slow the dark hours slid
While, with the hillside for his coffin lid,
Stifling he cowered, heart-sick and ears astrain
For strokes, that now at last his path have rid
Back to blurred noon a-mist through bleak March rain.
Groups come and go. A white face, pausing near
As rough girls point her, stares at him distraught;
Then wails: ‘Not he? Ye've fooled me. Jack baint theer.
Yo'towd me, lass, yo'd seed him safely brought.
Yon? Yon's Bob Smith, a drunken good-for-naught,
Owns wife nor barne t'axe gin he's down or no.
An' Cap'en says t'rest on 'em'll ne'er be raught—
Nay, t'wrang mon's saved, lass: my mon's lost below.’
He sits half dazed, scarce recking what betid
Since round his gang crashed roof and wall in wrack—
Long since, it seems, so slow the dark hours slid
While, with the hillside for his coffin lid,
Stifling he cowered, heart-sick and ears astrain
For strokes, that now at last his path have rid
Back to blurred noon a-mist through bleak March rain.
114
As rough girls point her, stares at him distraught;
Then wails: ‘Not he? Ye've fooled me. Jack baint theer.
Yo'towd me, lass, yo'd seed him safely brought.
Yon? Yon's Bob Smith, a drunken good-for-naught,
Owns wife nor barne t'axe gin he's down or no.
An' Cap'en says t'rest on 'em'll ne'er be raught—
Nay, t'wrang mon's saved, lass: my mon's lost below.’
Poor soul, whose shattered hope no hap shall mend:
Crushed into clay kind heart and strong hand lie.
But this man few had mourned as few befriend;
He thinks so, maybe, while the folk pass by,
Not one face gladder that their grey-palled sky
Still metes him out his tale of drudging days
And sparse-strewn pleasures, matched in stall and sty:
Aye, the wrong man, for sure, as who gain-says?
Crushed into clay kind heart and strong hand lie.
115
He thinks so, maybe, while the folk pass by,
Not one face gladder that their grey-palled sky
Still metes him out his tale of drudging days
And sparse-strewn pleasures, matched in stall and sty:
Aye, the wrong man, for sure, as who gain-says?
A cur, ungainly, hunger-pinched and old,
Who makes him halting haste on gaunt legs three,
Comes nigh and nigh with crouchings manifold,
Low whining to himself for fearful glee,
Till shag-pate rub against the grimy knee,
And pouncing paws. You watch a dim smile wake
Slow in the listless eyes: ‘Eh, Grip,’ says he,
‘A be t'roight mon for yo' an' no mistake.’
Who makes him halting haste on gaunt legs three,
Comes nigh and nigh with crouchings manifold,
Low whining to himself for fearful glee,
Till shag-pate rub against the grimy knee,
And pouncing paws. You watch a dim smile wake
Slow in the listless eyes: ‘Eh, Grip,’ says he,
‘A be t'roight mon for yo' an' no mistake.’
| Ghost-bereft | |