Here he sits, scribbling of black pigs and fate,
Of time and Twilight tales, that bare broomstick
Blavatsky called stout Protestants come late
To bite and tear away the briars thick

With Catholic degeneration: notebooks filled
By thoughts transformed to symbols. Through the glass
All London roils in thickening fog whose still
Obscurity seems like a gnostic masque

Where all he won’t believe may still be seen:
A vision’s second-hand remembering
+++++++That shames the cold room’s bare walls.

+++++++++++++++++++++His Da, stirred
In anger from his studio, where each brush
Stroke re-inscribes the real, sighs now, “You’re just
A poet, Willie, no philosopher.”