From feet to fingers muscled in will and faith;
secretly, he prepares his power and firestones.
Some attempt to frighten, awe with their thunder;
with his lightening lance,
dragon slayer seeks only to wither and slay.
It is best his enemy knows nothing about him,

big cities,                old forests,
dark keys,                 cool valleys,
back alleys,                 huge boulders,
wounded knees,                 mighty trees.

The rainbow dragon writhes through
vast labyrinths of ineffable connected
orange and yellow light.

In unwitnessed mountains, the dragon prowls,
cold blooded and hungry. He is made
of ice and teeth, growls and unsatisfied
ghastliness.

Dragon slayer in proud silence walks,
his grey wool cloak over strong heart
deeply beating. His eyes like oak knots burn.

No one has sent him, no one knows.
At moon-rise he stops below a birch,
he builds his fire, he waits.

Big open canyons, steep hills, dark caves,
thin trails, an eye.

Dragon tops the ridge, nostrils flare,
pauses, hangs on awful dawn,
waddles down ridge, swishes tail
through fallen silver-tip needles.

Inside merciless breast, cold treasure.
Infinitesimal chance, for slayer to kill.
To falter or run is doom.

Dragon slayer wades, through rushing white waters,
exhausted in compassionate destruction.
He feels like a feathered nest that cradles
the smooth eggs of accomplished time.

Neither dragon nor slayer survive,
but the glory of rainbows
lingers.


© Carlton Godbold 1987

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