THE FIGHT
When I found the swallow's
Nest under the bridge--
Ankle deep in the bog stream,
Traffic drumming overhead--
I was so pleased, I ran
To fetch a school companion
To share the nude fragility
Of the shells, lightly freckled
With colour, in their cradle
Of feathers, twigs, earth.
It was still breast warm
Where I curved in my hand
To count them, one by one
Into his cold palm, a kind
Of trophy or offering. Turn-
Ing my back, to scoop out
The last, I heard him run
Down the echoing hollow
Of the bridge. Splashing
After, I bent tangled in
Bull wire at the bridge's
Mouth, when I saw him take
And break them, one by one
Against a sunlit stone.
For minutes we fought
Standing, and falling in
The river's brown spate,
And I would still fight
Though now I can forgive.
To worship or destroy beauty--
That double edge of impulse
I recognize, by which we live;
But also the bitter paradox
Of betraying love to harm,
Then lunging, too late,
With fists, to its defense.
--John Montague
