Classic Poem

The nine a.m. news from here is:
it was four degrees below freezing
though mid-April; and a greybeard man
ran west under a grey sky, though
he could not catch up the youth
who'd grabbed his name and fled;
and a grey horse, rump to the weather, came
head-up, tense as a deer,
to stare at him directly
out of the Stone Age; and a grey
migrating goshawk beat
into the wind overhead. . . . Indeed,

all the while Young and Crippen rode
their rocket into a well
bouldered with planets and back again,
it was all retro here:

in the hills' draughty museum, these
grey antiquities.