In this old village now, at night,
Towering above, the strange neons point their flares high,
Blanching the street: all shadows fled
Back, back, under these potent organs,
Into our doorways, making them dark hoods
From which emerge mauve faces of our dead.
When we lie down, the neons burn through the curtains
Into the rooms, scorching our oldfashioned sleep.
Great tankers fly
Corrosive liquids, the simple milk
Frightened in loud drums, enormous decks of sheep,
Hurtling down the Roman road.
We think we hear the sheep cry —
It is the memory of a sound, we have not really heard it
For some years, so hard and swift they roar now
To their morning deaths. And we seldom cross the road
Into their fields.
The sun rises. But the neons take over
Sunset. Woods, and the village tree,
Glare as in pantomimes. When the river breathes
Into our evenings its familiar mist
Scented with grass and sewin, all those homely vapours
Suddenly turn a sickening red.
Around this time, the mauve dead patiently peer and gossip
Under the hoods.
In this old village now, at night,
Towering above, the strange neons point their flares high,
Blanching the street: all shadows fled
Back, back, under these potent organs,
Into our doorways, making them dark hoods
From which emerge mauve faces of our dead.
When we lie down, the neons burn through the curtains
Into the rooms, scorching our oldfashioned sleep.
Great tankers fly
Corrosive liquids, the simple milk
Frightened in loud drums, enormous decks of sheep,
Hurtling down the Roman road.
We think we hear the sheep cry —
It is the memory of a sound, we have not really heard it
For some years, so hard and swift they roar now
To their morning deaths. And we seldom cross the road
Into their fields.
The sun rises. But the neons take over
Sunset. Woods, and the village tree,
Glare as in pantomimes. When the river breathes
Into our evenings its familiar mist
Scented with grass and sewin, all those homely vapours
Suddenly turn a sickening red.
Around this time, the mauve dead patiently peer and gossip
Under the hoods.
Towering above, the strange neons point their flares high,
Blanching the street: all shadows fled
Back, back, under these potent organs,
Into our doorways, making them dark hoods
From which emerge mauve faces of our dead.
When we lie down, the neons burn through the curtains
Into the rooms, scorching our oldfashioned sleep.
Great tankers fly
Corrosive liquids, the simple milk
Frightened in loud drums, enormous decks of sheep,
Hurtling down the Roman road.
We think we hear the sheep cry —
It is the memory of a sound, we have not really heard it
For some years, so hard and swift they roar now
To their morning deaths. And we seldom cross the road
Into their fields.
The sun rises. But the neons take over
Sunset. Woods, and the village tree,
Glare as in pantomimes. When the river breathes
Into our evenings its familiar mist
Scented with grass and sewin, all those homely vapours
Suddenly turn a sickening red.
Around this time, the mauve dead patiently peer and gossip
Under the hoods.
In this old village now, at night,
Towering above, the strange neons point their flares high,
Blanching the street: all shadows fled
Back, back, under these potent organs,
Into our doorways, making them dark hoods
From which emerge mauve faces of our dead.
When we lie down, the neons burn through the curtains
Into the rooms, scorching our oldfashioned sleep.
Great tankers fly
Corrosive liquids, the simple milk
Frightened in loud drums, enormous decks of sheep,
Hurtling down the Roman road.
We think we hear the sheep cry —
It is the memory of a sound, we have not really heard it
For some years, so hard and swift they roar now
To their morning deaths. And we seldom cross the road
Into their fields.
The sun rises. But the neons take over
Sunset. Woods, and the village tree,
Glare as in pantomimes. When the river breathes
Into our evenings its familiar mist
Scented with grass and sewin, all those homely vapours
Suddenly turn a sickening red.
Around this time, the mauve dead patiently peer and gossip
Under the hoods.