Bearskin

The devil wears a green coat
and drives a hard bargain.
We met and made our pact
in a circle of gnarled trees
on a heath. For seven years
I stayed unwashed, my hair
grew thick as felt — clotted
with grease and dust. My hands
became claws, and I said
never a word of prayer.
In exchange, I wore
the green coat with its pocket
that bred ducats like fleas;
and my cloak and my bed
was the skin of the bear
I'd killed to prove my courage:
a second skin, a second
self — morning and night;
year in, year out… At first,
I lived high off the hog —
who wouldn't? — and went
travelling in plush coaches:
not minded to let
stricken faces stop me.
I was a wealthy beast,
and had the devil's own strength.
But came the day no mirror
could decipher me;
grass poked from my collar;
my bear-cloak made humans
and small animals
run from me in terror.
Yet through those seven years
I bought the prayers of the poor,
my heart stayed a warm hearth.
There was an old man I found
huddled in tears at an inn:
I'd been sent to a back room
and heard him through the wall.
My gold saved him from despair.
In gratitude, his daughter
offered to be my bride.
I broke my ring, gave her
half — then vanished until
the moment came when I
could stand in that circle
of wind-bent trees, ready
to return the green coat
and force the devil to scrub
each grain of dirt from me,
and cut my nails and hair —
restoring me to the self
I'd known before my exile.
That done, the half-rings could be
joined — and a joyous peace reign.
Thus I learnt ways of life
other than war, my body's
courage took root in
my soul — and never again
would the devil touch me.