Forgotten Ground Regained
Lay of the Staffordshire Hoard Dragon
When freshly hatched, I found a hoard.To guard my gold, I grew its size,alert in lair ‧ laid around it.But my hoard could be ‧ held in a handbag,so I’m the shape ‧ and size of a cat --not fierce fire-drake, more fire-duckling.
But treasured treasure ‧ was taken from me -- so pillage I plan, plotting revenge,seek out my stash ‧ throughout Staffordshire.A fearless foe ‧ I fly aboveThe A38, anger in heart.Mercians must ‧ be made to pay!I’ll spit, slightly ‧ singe their fingers --give a shallow scratch ‧ from my short claws.My teeth will tear ‧ at trouser-bottoms;in Lichfield gardens, grass lawns I’ll scorch.
If all that fails, don’t think it funny --much like Grendel, I’ve got a mummy.
This poem was originally publilshed in Withowinde 157, p. 11, Spring, 2011
Copyright © Martin Vine, 2011
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