That lone black tree, spire upon spire. What makes man make a church
Or an old mosque. all choked in traffic fumes blackened by age,
Innumerable deaths, crime, rain... pissed-on greenery.
Hillocks lead to grey sea rained on
Grey upon green, grey upon green, diffused in liquid light
Leads to more diffused Lothian grey, middleclass roads where
Matrons sleep. Stubble growing through in a shady bathroom.
No uproar on the bottom streets.
Autumn light springing. Light behind grey where... a summer
Sun sinks. (like Eire, more raindrops in light).
Makes me think of crypts, shrouds in the grave, a musty smell
Memories of park afternoons, sour-comical, when I was 10...
Going home to Saturday afternoon TV.
Shadows of old medieval hillocks, where despairing chainmail
Kings have slaughtered, choked, vomited, died,
Ignoble old trees, branches like sorrowful veins.
"Night is not coming"... It comes, disappointed.
Gothic grey.... no escaping grey. It is a pinkish grey
Auburn-shadowed grey, candy tobacco chocolate grey
Blackened like ash of ancient cigars. Wallace?
Industrial west- grey horizon. reminds me of my
Uncles half-drunk, makes me think of an afternoon
In 1982, football at twilight, fumes from automobiles,
Saturdays, Europe, ignoring old churches,
Like dreams of Rembrandt and masonry.
Names, a dream like a gothic spike,
Traffic fumes inhaled like eternity
In carboniferous lungs.
No comments:
Post a Comment