More Sonnets At Christmas I

To Denis Devlin Again the native hour lets down the locks Uncombed and black, but gray the bobbing beard; Ten years ago His eyes, fierce shuttlecocks, Pierced the close net of what I failed: I feared The belly-cold, the grave-clout, that betrayed Me dithering in the drift of cordial seas; Ten years are time enough to be dismayed By mummy Christ, head crammed between his knees. Suppose I take an arrogant bomber, stroke By stroke, up to the frazzled sun to hear Sun-ghostlings whisper: Yes, the capital yoke- Remove it and there's not a ghost to fear This crucial day, whose decapitate joke Languidly winds into the inner ear.