St George and the Dragon

Recently, I was born at St George’s Hospital.

High on their weeping concrete wall, of course,

is mounted a dark bronze statue of an erect St George

stomping forever on the squirming dragon.

Every year since, I have hoped to grow pumpkins

and replace the clock in the kitchen with one that doesn’t tick…

But I’m not exactly what you call a high achiever,

and I have, in this short space of time, done very wrong things,

usually after fluking acts of extreme goodness.

There is one thing, however, that must be said in my defence,

which is this: that whenever it is time again

to take a passing glance at that popular statue

(on my way to my son’s music lesson, or the carwash, perhaps)

I have always done my best to broker a deal

between George and that much aligned water-loving serpent.

“I prefer to eat sheep,” argues the dragon, “but they send me maidens.”

“Well you should refuse them,” replies St George.

“But a dragon must eat something,” points out the dragon. “And besides,

they’re not even Christians yet.”

“Ahh,” smiles the knight, “I’ll soon fix that...”

As they say, the rest is historicity,

and so, in reality, I have failed again, while ever more babies

are born behind the wall, and the dark bronze

threatens to break out in green blotches,

and the angels all go soldiering on.