A poem that I composed this morning walking the dog while the wind blew cold showers and it didn’t feel like August at all. It’s full of allusions to other poems, plays, songs, the words we treasure now, but which will not prevent the end.
For dverse open link night.
Painting ©Anders Osterlind
Into this darkness, will light break from any window?
He said it glowed, this planet, blue as an orange,
now squeezed in a mad ape’s fist,
until the last drops of recorded time fall into the sooty veils of morning,
where no birds sing.
Is there anybody there? they ask, the travellers,
but there are no ghosts in the stairwell to answer,
no moon in the sky to remember.
Words in the wind, blowing,
mean as little as the blaze of a missile’s tail,
when there are no ears to hear, no tongues to sing.
In the end are no words, just the faintest sigh,
as the ash tree’s last leaf drifts into the dust.