Stark grey density
Stretched tight over the smoke factories
Glowing red and sulphurous
Towards the knowing earth
Glowering greenishly
At the in different heavens.
Brown stones inhabit the void
Where grim towers
Assail the sky.
The air is muddied and tired
And the mountains
Are stiff with pointless waiting.
Everywhere there is similarity.
Each sodden blade of grass
Every meadow
Tree
Building
Perhaps every mind
The same.
There is nothing to know
There is peace.
Who will come to solve the riddle
Of the green grass
Or disturb the listless communion
Of the yellow fog lamps?
The people nod
Cheero
And drink close and bawdily
In their wooden pubs
Overflowing with brown beer
And stale conversation
Never completely drowning
Such truth as shall ever be.
A room filled with ancient voices.
They are all men of flesh.
Each, the kindly smiling child
Of the soul-same mother.
Consort to the sky
And very beautiful.
Stone reality.
Omniscient memory.
If only the time
And the memories
Would stop.
If only the music
The folkish grey sounds
Bubbling out of the
Dribbling down beer
Resounding out of the hearts
Of those dread
Gaelic minstrels.
If only those sounds
Those time-hardened sounds
Would rise up
In anger
And rend their sweet
Amicability.