188
what's o'clock
Which hide your face, your hands,
Your feet at whose slight tread
Frore water curds to freckled sands
Seaweed encrusted.
The organ loft is draughty with faint voices
Weeping,
Which are not mine, nor would be.
I purposed anthems, copper-red and golden,
Thrusting to the hearts of Babylonian Kings,
Bowed down before Judea and its Highest,
That God of Hosts who screens himself with banners.
My finger-tips are cast in a shard of silence;
The wormy lips of these great, narrow tunnels, the pipes,
Are choked with silence;
The banners, the banners, are brittle with decay
And rusted out of colour.
Your feet at whose slight tread
Frore water curds to freckled sands
Seaweed encrusted.
The organ loft is draughty with faint voices
Weeping,
Which are not mine, nor would be.
I purposed anthems, copper-red and golden,
Thrusting to the hearts of Babylonian Kings,
Bowed down before Judea and its Highest,
That God of Hosts who screens himself with banners.
My finger-tips are cast in a shard of silence;
The wormy lips of these great, narrow tunnels, the pipes,
Are choked with silence;
The banners, the banners, are brittle with decay
And rusted out of colour.
