When the light has gone below
in winter days
streets mute with snow
I pace out to the sleeping mile
where day succumbs
a blessed while
To wallow in the ancient glares
of harrowed brows with
secrets there
Where men of olden high
esteem, are now just
figures fixed in dream
Their insight gone, their fire
burnt, their battles won
their lessons learnt
Just fodder for the pigeon dirt
that drops and scatters
on their work
Yes, on all sides these
tomb men sleep,
and cradle knowledge
once they gave
and now must keep
and now must keep.