Sunday, 9 June 2013

BEFORE THE GREAT DEPARTURE


The trains are crossing the river, we stand outside the steam,
they howl with purpose
and, believe us, we try to listen by the bridges
of many bellowing heavens.


Sleep! Casey Jones makes it to London town, catch the echo
and switch off the countdown,
Cold waters pour onto lighted avenues.
Whisper!
The trees are falling with the mists.
Listen! Behind the mind's closed corridors,
The falling glow sweeps over the city
as many screens of interdimensional reality revolve into understanding
From within the crackling vision of the last explosion.


So the clouds sway open, so the hearts are radioactive,
they rock, rock, rock,
But our eyes will not open, myopic children borne into self-fulfilled
disaster
With the souls that passed this way before, before ...


And we may not anchor our desires in the old forest,
nor trust our seed to the lifting missile,
Searing through the first loneliness
toward the blues in endless retrospection.


The hunter and the wolves have met again,
and when we awake
To the sound of our pulsing fears, the Final Place
will spring into full circle,
The Great Departure begins to tick with energy -
and you have forgotten to weep and scan the spaces ...


The trains are crossing the river ...
believe us,
We try to listen, we try to wave goodbye.



RW, first draft, 1967, latest draft, 15.XII.92.

Copyright, Rory Winter 2013

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