The sun above the hills raged in the height.
Within Lot’s cave, his vine-stock’s living screen
Filtered the noon-day glare to a dim green,
And hung the fat grapes bunched against the light.
The rascal patriarch, the bad old man,
Naked and rollicking on his heap of straw,
Scratching his hairy cods — one drunken paw
Spilled the red liquor from its silver can.
His beard, white as a blossoming branch, gaped wide;
Out flew a laugh: ‘By God, the wine is out!
The cavern rumbled to his shout.
Brown fingers pushed the leafy screen aside,
And, padding broadly with their bare-foot tread,
Calm-eyed, big-bellied, purposeful and slow,
Lot’s delicate daughters, in the bloom and glow
Of their fulfilment stood beside his bed.
Crafty from fear, reckless with joy and greed,
The old man held them in his crapulous eye:
Mountains of promise bulging in his sky;
Ark of his race; God’s covenant to his seed.
They stooped to take his cup, tilted and poured;
The must rose mantling to the glittering rim;
And, as the heart of Lot grew bold in him
It boasted and exulted in the Lord.
The one Just Man from Sodom saved alive!
Did not His finger point me to this cave?
Behold His hand once more stretched out to save!
For Jahweh too is just. My seed shall thrive.
‘Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right?
Why did his angels take me by the hand?
My tribe shall yet be numbered with the sand
Upon the shore and with the stars of night.
‘With me it shall be as with Abraham.
Dark are His ways, but sure and swift to bless —
How should my ewes breed in the wilderness?
And lo, the Lord himself provides a ram!’
But Lot’s resourceful daughters, side by side
Smiled back, inscrutable, patient and content;
Their slender bodies, ripe and eloquent
Swayed like the standing corn at harvest-tide.
And, conscious of what trouble stirred below
His words, and flickered in his shrewd old eyes,
They placed the cup that kept their father wise
In that best wisdom, which is not to know.