THE DREAMS OF TWENTY CENTURIES
There’s a scatter of stars
and a moon just seen : the thin, tired orb
of a full moon quite fatigued, and the dusky bars
of the clouds that lean in mountainous grey
and begin to screen the gulping gunman shooting hard by
out in the still, the electric air, strung to its heights
of bedevilled storm.
It’s a gallowing dusk
as the emerald duck-heads bleed in the grass
and civilised power’s enduring farce is everywhere :
from the seat of the towns to the moors,
to the redshanks’ mud-freckled shores
above which three whimbrels whistle a tremble, triple, tremble song of inarticulate wrong?
slow as the heavy-gut pike in the sluggish streams,
the dreams of twenty centuries blink
and ravage themselves,
while we dance the dance with our scientific elves,
laughing at all the folly of our past with large-
enmeshed, lascivious, science-pliance eyes, cataracted
in castrated beliefs’ opacity of
I’s (no lies!).