top of page


Except for hunters of the night -

not the usual suspect range -

Blake’s Tyger would be burning bright

’cept carpetbaggers, trappers strange.

The rugs rolled back, as maybe bile -

cartoons to carton, Pooh to flake;

the threat we’d seen was given smile,

for art of petrol tankers’ sake.

From sad or silly, that power drives,

this globe which human beings cull,

cheap shots where advertising thrives.

so majesty is voided, null.

That we should bait, tie flame to tale,

make Kipling cake of jungle book,

abandon anvil, furnace trail,

demean the mighty, humour hook?

Not fuel, this fearfully framed jewel -

why treat, the most beautiful cruel?

24 views3 comments

3 comentarios

John Dallison
John Dallison
13 may 2023

Both profound and witty. I love the way your poem progresses to its splendid use of the challenge's phrase...

Me gusta

Miembro desconocido
12 may 2023


Me gusta

Nigel Smith
Nigel Smith
12 may 2023

Simply brilliant Stephen! A collage of man's love and fear of this magnificent creature through the ages, I thank you for my morning ponder.

Me gusta
bottom of page