by Brett Rutherford
PITY THE DRAGON
Surveying my vases,
teapots and paintings,
I count no less
than thirty dragons
leaping from peak
into a sea of clouds,
ever in chase
of that flaming pearl
it is never allowed
to swallow, apart
from its kind around
the curve of vase,
contending with phoenixes,
cloud clots, and even
perversely huge flowers,
it is never permitted
to meet one of its kind,
to caress, converse,
make love. One wonders
if new dragons are ever made
at all. Seldom entirely
free, one claw behind
a tuft of smoke, the edge
of a clifftop, the line
of a rooftop — even
the artist constrains it
with such device
in fear of its free flight,
its all-consuming
flame. How free
is free if one is ever
alone and above
the loved world?
