Lead, living proudly for one hour gold:
A cloud that wears the glory of the sun,
and thus is privileged and granted bold
pretences - just as Cinderella won
until her hour struck. The colour worn,
will fade; then, vanishing, return to light.
And onward plodding as she was when born,
a single, leaden cloud will ride the night.

"Sah'b! Sah'b! Baksheesh! Salaam!
"Sah'b, bakshi?"
Apparently vacant, perfectly calm
I deign to see
naught - hear nothing of her drool.
The train will start;
then, for a space of time some cool
air may dart
(with dust and ****) across my brow.
It is so hot!

Next stop, on oath, again I vow
more beggars trot.
"Sah'b," she whines at me. No notice
do I take,
but wisdom tells me mental note is
sure to make
impression clear upon my mind
in this heat.
I cannot for so long be blind.
It is defeat.

For, can I, deafened, be unkind,
ignore the bleat?
"Sah'b," she whimpers at my window.
So I turn.
She wins - I lose and glance below.
Inside I burn,
but give no outward sign.  I spy
a legless *******
slobbering. Worse still, clung to by
a babe at ******.

A paper hat,
a piece of string
around my finger
for a ring.

And we play wedding day.
And you can stand there
Poochy boy;
and be preacher with your toy.

Their world is theirs, though it be theirs
and small.
Theirs by which to stand - perhaps to fall.
By shells of monarch buildings gaunt and dead,
gaily nervous and with turning head
and listening ears and watching hearts that beat,
they pass their hours in the home, the street;
and silently they **** a silent war,
who feel the present and have felt before.

The war goes on - there is no sound of guns.
Only the fierce friction of brains that are hissing;
the tense and savage barter of two for ones.
And all the while in the park,
there are lovers kissing.

The river, passing sluggishly,
twisting through the poplars' ranks,
moves a rolling, lazy thing
between her green and saffron banks.

Here and there, a silver bark
reflects the season and the sun;
and in the distance can be heard
the shallow chop of work begun.

"Wurr be gwain, mah lov'rr?"     - Ah,
no soft refrain,
this sentence sweetly rural, in
a country lane.

No country maiden pauses in
her morning walk
with country boy, and, planning for
a lover's talk,

Answers: "Over yuerr, mah lov'rr."
No, still sweeter,
these kind words were spoken not
in love to greet her,

But her father, old and smiling,
close behind her
in the parlor of a pub
by mugs of cider.

It was her brother asked the question,
gently laughing.
"Bain" gwun no-wurr," said the old man.
They were not chaffing,

For in Devon is the world
a natural lover,
both in word as well as feeling;
custom wove her,

Blessed Devon, in a tidy
weave complex.
So daun 'ee vex 'erself mah lov'rr!
Daun 'ee vex!

Powdered face with tired eyes
grey lids showing through the "lies"
in fantasy you wander far,
dreaming who you were and are.

And hung upon a wicker chair
your cotton frock and underwear.
And on a tray, a stubbed cigar,
some cigarettes, a chocolate bar.

Have you noticed how the children
are not singing any more?
Neither do they hum,
as we would do, or whistle when
remembering a tune.
Have you noticed how the children
are not listening any more?
For now their ears are numb
from the beating and the wailing
at the altar rock.

In the market by the poultry stand
I saw him, peeping-eyed,
with his lop ear and his funny nose
and lots of straw beside.

I passed him by and slowed a bit;
then, halting in my stride,
I turned again to look at it,
and all the straw beside.

Moving on a yard or more
I met old Thomson Hyde,
went into the Bull and Boar,
and sat down there inside.

I saw him in my mind's eye clear,
as clear as if I spied
him lying by the counter there,
and all the straw beside.

On old Thompson's bicycle
as fast as I could ride
I hastened to the poultry-stand,
"How much the pup" I cried.

But though the words came from my lips,
all my hopes had died.
For there was only a piece of rope
and a heap of straw beside.

I stood on Marathon's old plain
and saw Miltiades again,
before ten thousand men of Athens;
and, bolder than their thousand spears, Plateans,
a little band who, too, would die
and on those marshes, ******, lie
rather than exchange the sword
for chains and curses of a Persian lord.

Many are the years since then.
But still their spirit breathes, for when
we contemplate their great success,
unknowingly their ancient souls we bless.

Beside the barn a hothouse glass
flashes, and across the grass
green water sparkles in the pool.
And at a tree where I sit cool,
the boughs above me softly creak
and whisper as old memories speak.
Grey visions swim with things undone;
and resolutions, one by one,
crowd my conscience, long disowned;
and scenes forgotten, fears postponed,
return as if they were today
- and stronger in a curious way.

Listen. It is the moonlight.
Can you hear it fall,
like a drench of silver rain
upon the garden wall?
Can you hear the moonbeams
splashing as they spill,
glancing from the grasses to
the sleeping daffodil?
Listen. It is the moonlight.
Can you hear it fall
gently through the shaded night,
upon the garden wall?

Overhead the sky is black with stars
somewhere in the distance there are cars
and standing, listening, very still
in the long grass on a little hill,
high enough to look across the land,
I can see the distant, grey-blue sand;
and where the crest the sea so white,
foaming horses in the silver light.

Pity the young who may not stay,
who deeply care
everywhere,
who shall not know a yesterday.
'Ashes to ashes'
is a must;
gases to gases
after the dust.
Pity the young who may not see;
keen their sense
of the expense
of disagreement by the free:
bitter words,
hissing thoughts.
Dying birds,
empty forts

Pluck a dandelion - live your life in full.
Pluck a dandelion from its home
among the long grass in the glade and give,
my lover, give it to the wind,
the wind that knows.

Drink my lover - drink, it is your worth.
The tame fish at the rock will watch you then.
Watch my lover, watch until you sleep
the sleep of dreamers on the bank;
the slow wind knows.

And the tame fish at the rock can wink,
or make a little nod and I will hear
the moment that you wake, my lover, and
the wind will blow the dandelion
in your lap.

The sky is there;
the spruce and pine point to it.
A quarter moon
hovers scarcely through it.

For very soon
there will only be the stars
to lamp the night;
and the yellow windows
of bunkhouse light.

And there, the steady
murmur and the laugh
of those who do a cord
or two - or half.

Remote cottage in a blanket fold
of purple hills in spring
a gem beneath a sky of blue and gold,
a peaceful, quiet thing.
Summer lazes where the spring has been,
a fragrant, scented cloak;
then hills, from purple, change to yellow, green
and russet-brown and oak.
Autumn passes by this lonely site,
and cold the winter breathes
laying down her shroud of silver-white
on autumn's dying leaves.
Remote cottage in a blanket fold
of white awaiting spring;
warm beneath a dying winter cold
a peaceful, quiet thing.

Romance fills the room,
and petals of a bloom
invented
by angels, round our feet
in little clusters, neat,
lie scented.

Crazily we share
words rapturous and rare
in worth;
and magic on our lips
as joy from Heaven slips
to Earth.

Swiftly blows the scent of rain
borne by wind and sun
across a deep and trackless sky
where clouds in legions run.
Soon at night will sail the moon,
a ship of burnished brass,
upon a sea of ink with stars
that flicker as they pass.

Take me over autumn fields and moors
wet with warm September falls of rain,
under the dark, familiar sky that roars
and lightens, and is yours and mine again.
Take my hand and laugh, then slip beside
the blowing wind we love, and run with me.
And we shall dance with hurried clouds and ride
upon brown rocks awash with sea.

The grass is black, the hills are afire;
and in the distance there is a spire
peering through the pall of smoke that fills
the ending air with choking soot, perilous
today, harmless tomorrow for none will know
the fall of death as no wind will blow.

The sky is grey and where are the clouds?
Nobody knows when the time is for shrouds.
What is the day, where are the men?
Perhaps it is night and the moon has gone.
Perhaps it is day and the sun is not on.
The grass is black and the hills are afire.

These few hours that are mine to keep
remind me that nobody will regret
my passing - no fond family will weep.
Some friends will think of me and then forget.

I am no loss, unless, perhaps, to England,
her fields and farms and winding country lanes,
her rivers and her heather-covered moorland
where wild ponies gallop in the rains.

Time is in the age of trees,
on the wings of birds
and in the casting seas.
Time is a pulse in the fading night,
a thought without a measure,
without hearing, without sight.
Time is stillness and no choice;
time is all things in a heart,
a song in a silent voice.

Timothy, Timothy, lonely Tim,
searching, searching, playing with Jim.
Wondering, wondering where you are
with uncles and aunts and no Mamma.

Family, family, you have none
- none you can call a personal one;
whom do you love and who loves you?
Is it Charlie or Jim, or Lucy or Sue?

Older and older you learn to cry
quietly, quietly tears that dry.
Puzzling, puzzling soon you find
that having no parents is not very kind.

When you die, you do not "pass away;"
You "pass on."
For, on earth you are "passing by"
en route to somewhere,
not far away

When I am gone, remember me by these:
these simple flowers that are mine at will,
yet live, wild and laughing in the breeze.
When I am gone, remember me by these,
and that tomorrow they are laughing still.

Across a wind and willop of a sea
your face grows dim, grows dim to me.
At first it grew in strength, was clear,
at every corner, haunting, near.
Time and distance can do much
to love - how fast I lose your touch
across a wind and willop of a sea.
Your face grows dim, grows dim to me.