by Gord Sellar
if I could but drink the blood of Oberon
and feast his flesh, and suck the marrow coarse
in half a dream, I could (I do believe)
come to bring the south unto the north
and light to dark worlds would then come,
and I as King would then collect the taxèd sum.
for Oberon is Alberich–yes elvenking is dwarf;
he ought to travel south to drip his golden rings for me.
and in this shape I wear tonight, this form of beast
I could rule this shattered world, both brittle earth and sea;
tearing concrete from the soil and metal from the loam
and make in wilderness my seat of power and my throne
my name is not a spell these days; ’tis dry
my pow’r is ever on the wane, a well of dust
and if I should ever more come across unpair’d man
his forgotten ancient words make barrier to my game
but underneath your dreams, along the tidy shadowed streets,
Puck rhymes your dreams, and lies betwixt thy so-clean sheets.
— Saskatoon, 1998
February 10, 2012