BARBARA HARDY 77

The unicorn

The boy who raced through the fields Schooled by his dreams Came home crying Disappointed in the mild sheep

Ambitious huntsmen Who leapt over high hedges Hallooed bright death Till their hounds tore at each other

Lovers longing for simplicity As they made the twobacked beast Woke in sadness After divided sleep

The confident virgin Who ran off into the woods Returned none the wiser Her arms full of lilies

The old wives are wrong The creature prefers The discontents in men and women Of middle age

Who are outgrowing pastime Stumble in the dances And attend to the shifts Of winter light

Its appearance is familiar It wears the old dream’s face Its stare pierces Its whiteness blinds It plays havoc