Bogle

Once Bogle ruled the world.
Leading a charge at the head of his horde,
Mounted on a dog fox.
Plunging into the ocean
Perched on a gannet
Gobbling grilled fish around a campfire.

Battling with badgers,
Warring with weasels,
Struggling against stoats,
Vanquishing, victorious.

Then the Men came.
Ten times taller
With spears long as trees.

Bogles began to lose.

Next came bows, horses, sailing ships, armour
Crossbows, muskets and cannons.

Bogles fled and hid
But men pursued them

With stone roads, canals, steam trains,
Cars, tanks, machine guns, bombs.

Bogle's horde became a clan,
A settlement, a village,

Bogle

A family.
Alone in my country.
Once they lived in the temples,
Peaceful on peaks
Or silent waters

Now there are bullet trains,
Temple gardens thick with visitors
Hordes of men.

Now Bogle is the last Bogle.
He lives in my garden
In the bonzai forest.

He is armoured in flower pots
His boots are of frogskin
Which keeps out the wet.
His hair is a fright.

I glimpse him quite often
Among the dwarf trees
Or when I sit
With brush and with inkstones
Painting the summer.

I have painted this picture with them.