Fires - Book 1: The Stone, and Other TalesGibson, Wilfrid Wilson
General
Fires - Book 1: The Stone, and Other Tales
Gibson, Wilfrid Wilson
English poetry; Stories in rhyme
And, as we listened in the gloom
Of that forsaken living-room---
A chill clutch on our breath--
We thought how ill-chance came to all
Who kept the Flannan Light:
And how the rock had been the death
Of many a likely lad:
How six had come to a sudden end,
And three had gone stark mad:
And one whom we’d all known as friend
Had leapt from the lantern one still night,
And fallen dead by the lighthouse wall:
And long we thought
On the three we sought,
And of what might yet befall.
Like curs, a glance has brought to heel,
We listened, flinching there:
And looked, and looked, on the untouched meal,
And the overtoppled chair.
We seemed to stand for an endless while,
Though still no word was said,
Three men alive on Flannan Isle,
Who thought, on three men dead.
THE BROTHERS
All morning they had quarrelled, as they worked,
A little off their fellows, in the pit:
Dick growled at Robert; Robert said Dick shirked:
And when the roof, dropt more than they had reckoned,
Began to crack and split,
Though both rushed like a shot to set
The pit-props in their places,
Each said the other was to blame,
When, all secure, with flushed and grimy faces,
They faced each other for a second.
All morning they had quarrelled: yet,
Neither had breathed her name.
Again they turned to work:
And in the dusty murk
Of that black gallery
Which ran out three miles underneath the sea,
There was no sound at all,
Save whispering creak of roof and wall.
And crack of coal, and tap of pick,
And now and then a rattling fall:
While Robert worked on steadily, but Dick
In fits and starts, with teeth clenched tight,
And dark eyes flashing in his lamp’s dull light.
And when he paused, nigh spent, to wipe the sweat
From off his dripping brow: and Robert turned
To fling some idle jibe at him, the spark
Of anger, smouldering in him, flared and burned--
Though all his body quivered, wringing-wet--
Till that black hole
To him blazed red,
As if the very coal
Had kindled underfoot and overhead:
Then, gripping tight his pick,
He rushed upon his brother:
But Robert, turning quick,
Leapt up, and now they faced each other.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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