The house is dark as if all
Beyond it were yet to be made.
He puts on a jacket and he
Gets a bottle of beer from the
Refridgerator, unlocks the door
And steps out into the air.
The air is cool, it is September.
It is full of low noise and
Low evening light, the traffic
Up at the junction and drinkers
Somewhere in a nearby street
And streetlights and white lights
That flicker on as he passes them.
The world is grinding around
In one large continual course,
As loud and as steady as a factory.
Up at the cricket green he lies
Down away from the lights and
Drinks the beer and he peers up
At what stars are visible and
Senses their distant, slow rotation.
Gardens border the green, lit up,
Otherworldly, like empty stagesets.
He thinks how small England is.
Some three or four hundred lie
In their beds, or are yet awake,
Or, now cold, await being found.
Overhead, the stars carry on
Their distant, bleak emergency.
Saturday, 3 September 2011
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment