Not the one who takes up his bed and walks
But the ones who have known him all along
And carry him in
-- Seamus Heaney, ‘Miracle’
Not the one whose daily bed bears his iniquities
Because it was made by a fine village craftsman
Not a corporation.
Not the one who nails his hands to both
Stretcher handles mentally, in case his friends try
Abruptly to tip him off.
Not the friends who, in the beginning, were sold
On his humour, bought his struggles, levelled
His militant-victim scales.
But the one who, if he can bank on gossip about
A blind man, comes unskilled in silver-glossolalia
And offers a clean hand.