RED BROOM-HANDLES
I saw some red brooms carried on a cart— I think, somehow, the brooms were prison-made. Round their bright handles fitful fancy played,And all day long sent searching through the heart Signals of colour, that seemed flashed to mine From stone-grey corridors where no suns shine.
Surely it must have cheered that prisoner To stain the smooth pine handles goblin red; Surely he must have seen—grey stone instead—The caps of pixies where the green ferns stir, Or ruddy soil of some free, open down, Far from the cramping of the sordid town.
Red wooden beads upon an idol's neck; Red berries in some sleek, black head of hair; Red-painted cheeks of dolls, in windows whereThe children come a Christmas-tree to deck; Red-ochre fishing-boats on twilight seas— The prisoner may have visioned all of these.
It seemed to me a ripe defiance lurked In those gay handles on the rattling cart. As though a freedom sang within his heartThat never high brick walls nor warders burked. I think he kept unshackled in his soul The whirling scarlets of Carmagnole.
