SNOW FALLING THROUGH SMOKE

Snow was falling through the smoke. The light

Was the same as the beef tea I set by the bed.

Was I a relative? A servant? Hard to say,

Since everything resigned itself to duty.

When I was a child and called away

From reading to be useful in the house,

I saw what must become of me. And now

I felt myself abandoned by my name,

To watch that yellow face that wouldn’t die:

This year, next year, then my turn

To wear the grave-clothes in the attic bed.

I knew that I must leave the room, and when I did

I heard the snow, as if I were not there,

But was an ear, an afterwards, a nobody,

Perpetual and incomplete among the smoke

That hung along the ridges of the roofs,

A flake of icy rage among the millions

To whom the blizzard was the sum  of  things.

For hours I stood at the head of the stairs 

Beneath the dim deadlight, with nothing in mind

Except that I must rouse myself or else be lost.

And yet I could not see my way. The house itself

Seemed far off then, forgotten, like something

Already surrendered. I say it was madness

That came up around me, as water will coil

Through the decks of a ship. Too late

For these reflections, I remarked, and then was glad

That there was no one present who might hear,

And, with an effort, gathering myself at last,

Pretending not to listen to the snow,

Went back into the bedroom, since I must.

THE ANGEL: REMEMBRANCE SUNDAY

The poor mad angel boy of twelve

With the unblinking gold-green stare

And the frightening permanent smile

That should be love but cannot be

Is brought by his mother to join the crowd.

Terrible as an army with banners

The girl cadets strike dulcimers

And the sounding brass of the Legion marches

Crisply on from “Blaydon Races”

Via “Who’s Your Lady Friend?” and finally

Arrives at “Tipperary” as they pass

Between the gates and down the cypress-glade

Towards the obelisk. There is a crowd in black

Among the graves, as if the resurrection

Is concluding just in time. Veterans, widows,

Idlers, dogs and babies. Is this everyone?

Last Post. The silence. Then we undertake

“Abide with Me” but lack the heart for it

Here in the vast incendiary light of the world,

The air still charged with fireworks,

Sun without pity, sky without end.

There is no home or resting place.

The broken ground will have us all

Indifferently back. And here he is,

Imprisoned in his element,

The angel boy who neither lives nor dies.

Where can his mother be? He waits among us,

Innocent and terrible. His smile is death,

And like the world his green-gold gaze

That should be love sees nothing everywhere.