The Hayman Doyle

He prowled the house and bastard scrap of land
As though he were a wolf trapped in a cage,
Black bucket in that great ham-fisted hand.

He spat a lot – great balls of pent-up rage
At life beyond the stakes and crude barbed wire,
As though he were a wolf trapped in a cage.

On sweat-soaked summer days, he lit the fire
And spat into the flames, a phlegm-filled shot
At life beyond the stakes. And crude barbed wire

Bound well and gagged the dismal, muddied plot.
And then, in crusted boots, he dozed till dawn
And spat into the flames, a phlegm-filled shot

That fizzled with a sizzling angry scorn.
He hummed a snatch of some forgotten tune
And then, in crusted boots, he dozed till dawn.

With one eye cocked towards the mocking moon,
He brooded on the road beyond the gate
And hummed a snatch of some forgotten tune.

Sometimes he sat down heavy on the crate
That served as doorstep facing down the drive
And brooded on the road beyond. The gate

Lent height when Joss and I used to contrive
To rattle with dull stones that crate upturned,
That served as doorstep facing down the drive.

And then the door would swing. The game adjourned,
We’d run back up the hill, with no desire
To further rattle that dull crate upturned.

With raucous yells that ripped through thickly briar,
He snapped and slavered hard upon our heels.
We’d run back up the hill. With no desire

To follow or to quell our porcine squeals,
Untethered were the snarling, baying howls
That snapped and slavered hard upon our heels.

Unfettered ran the dark and brooding scowls,
Unleashed the pent-up fury in his eye,
Untethered were the snarling, baying howls.

With head upturned towards the mocking sky,
He prowled the house and bastard scrap of land.
Unleashed the pent-up fury in his eye,
Black bucket in that great ham-fisted hand.