His hair was as a girl’s: a childish mane,
Gold-wig of movement. He used to sit
Under the sun by the clear, south pane,
And like a warm heart, played around with it.
He drew as well. By thin and cautious strokes,
Over and over a thought-form would take wing:
Sometimes a lonely boy, outlined by chokes
Of silent tears; sometimes a grander thing,
A dragon of his mind’s unstopped creation.
One day he left; he left the pages by
That window seat – and brimming with temptation,
Even closer to his lair crept I –
And lifted from the residue, held before me,
An image of myself as Angus saw me.
My fascination with people who are more talented than I has often led me to terrible poetry.