The Man Who Refurbished Gargoyles Poem by Sheena Blackhall

The man who refurbished gargoyles
Had nails like mother of pearl, with large half moons

In conversation he tilted his head like a bird
Perched on an oak
Accustomed as he was to working at altitude

He articulated words, sharp and clean
Like the neat bites a ferret takes from flesh

At night when the TV flickered its half-light in his home
Sucking his wife into its cosy fantasies
He knotted the cord of his dressing gown
Like a flagellant's whip, against his naked thigh

He never ate sliced bread, preferring to handle
The baker's boulder whole, another craftsman's labour

In dreams he walked through
The Garden of Earthly Delights
Where devils emerged from strawberries
Pinch nosed and hissing on delicate cloven feet

His sandwiches were larks' tongues
Cow pit, crazies made on the sly
He tossed the cheese and ham lovingly made by his wife
Into the grass as crow bait to gather his familiars

He liked to lunch in the graveyard
He liked to run a crafty eye
Over the stone faced angels
Wings folded like resting dragon flies
Tomorrow he'd make his gargoyles
Ten times wickeder