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作曲 : William Doyle |
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Terrible inventions are these circular things |
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Absolute inevitable bliss |
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Paramount in certain kinds of enlightenment |
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If half-remembered venom persists |
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Something in the way that I turned my head |
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Rattled all the love to my neck |
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There it sat for days in anonymity |
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Now it has a note to be expressed |
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That's when all the colour turned an orchestral depth |
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Even magnolia flourished |
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Morning made a hole in the sky |
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Of a deep mauve gradient |
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Doors upon the landing were quietly shut |
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Pianos dropped in dissonance to their deaths |
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Roads and gardens bathed in a street-yellow light |
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Dawn laid out a hymn sheet and took a deep breath |
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But the actual fabric of the places where I learnt about the fabric of places |
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has remained uncannily consistent. |
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Stasis is still an option, |
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and it’s the one this part of England has chosen. |
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The world of my childhood hasn’t vanished; |
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it’s a ghost that has no struggle to be seen behind the coarse facades that have been superimposed down the years. |
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Behind the trees that it is now a crime to chop down, |
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because trees have rights, vistas don’t, |
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many views that I recall have been lost to arboreal correctness. |
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Beneath the dismal hutches that squat on edgelands that were dismal, |
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but exciting too. |
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My midget former self is also all too visible. |
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I behave like him, I amble for the sake of ambling, |
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at snail pace. |
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I too regard suburban avenues and river banks, |
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backstreets and woods as the best free show on earth. |
