  THE air is like a jarring bell That jangles words it cannot spell, And black as Fate, the iron trees Stretch thirstily to catch the breeze. The fat leaves pat the shrinking air; The hot sun’s patronising stare Rouses the stout flies from content To some small show of sentiment. Beneath the terrace shines the green Metallic strip of sea, and sheen Of sands, where folk flaunt parrot-bright With rags and tags of noisy light. The brass band’s snorting stabs the sky And tears the yielding vacancy— The imbecile and smiling blue Until fresh meaning trickles through; And slowly we perambulate With spectacles that concentrate, In one short hour, Eternity, In one small lens, Infinity. With children, our primeval curse, We overrun the universe— Beneath the giddy lights of noon, White as a tired August moon. The air is like a jarring bell That jangles words it cannot spell, And black as Fate, the iron trees Stretch thirstily to catch the breeze. |
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