Unseen Behind Ourselves Again
Away on the heather'd down
The camomile is blooming
The peasant dons his sceptred crown
Unaware the bill is spooning
Who sings for love, who sings for gold?
All is black and strewn with mould...
Away on the wind-blown moor
The kestrel ranges freely
The pheasant is his speckled lure
To trap him at a 'feelie'
Who cares for love, who cares for joy?
All that is, time will destroy...
Away upon the glistening sand
Where ryegrass is the master
'Tis pleasant to have freckled hands
To make the time go faster:
Who blames the heavens, who the Gods?
All's buried now under the sods
Away in darkest Donegal
The septic tanks are shining
An ecosystem doomed withal
And undermined by mining
The fairy folk are heard to weep
- All of them not shearing sheep...
Away beyond the nearest moon
The nebulae are waiting
The peasant with his large bassoon
Remains still, hibernating,
For beavers breakfast on his toes
While lobsters wait in serried rows
Awayday ticket in his hand
He waves to those who wait beside
The pheasant at the railway tracks
And can't afford the ride
Who cleans the rails? Who trains the trains?
In some dark place, the Seer explains:
"Away in Never-Never Land
The young grow old, the old unwind"
But still spoonbill pile up behind
The door, but never mind -
Thus is the wisdom of the East
Explained to those who want it least
| Contributors: | Grayman, dkb, Apsley, Hamish, P, TG, Roland, Anon.. |
| Poem finished: | 23rd June 2000. |