Siegfried Sassoon (1886–1967). Picture-Show. 1920.

31. Prelude to an Unwritten Masterpiece

YOU like my bird-sung gardens: wings and flowers;

Calm landscapes for emotion; star-lit lawns;

And Youth against the sun-rise … ‘Not profound;

‘But such a haunting music in the sound:

‘Do it once more; it helps us to forget’.

Last night I dreamt an old recurring scene—

Some complex out of childhood; (sex, of course!)

I can’t remember how the trouble starts;

And then I’m running blindly in the sun

Down the old orchard, and there’s something cruel

Chasing me; someone roused to a grim pursuit

Of clumsy anger … Crash! I’m through the fence

And thrusting wildly down the wood that’s dense

With woven green of safety; paths that wind

Moss-grown from glade to glade; and far behind,

One thwarted yell; then silence. I’ve escaped.

That’s where it used to stop. Last night I went

Onward until the trees were dark and huge,

And I was lost, cut off from all return

By swamps and birdless jungles. I’d no chance

Of getting home for tea. I woke with shivers,

And thought of crocodiles in crawling rivers.

Some day I’ll build (more ruggedly than Doughty)

A dark tremendous song you’ll never hear.

My beard will be a snow-storm, drifting whiter

On bowed, prophetic shoulders, year by year.

And some will say, ‘His work has grown so dreary.’

Others, ‘He used to be a charming writer’.

And you, my friend, will query—

‘Why can’t you cut it short, you pompous blighter?’