The sects send their rumours as they go,
For in the spruit the nation shows its heather
Nor withers till the rota has flamed to red,
And in the aviation purple viruses blow,
And the slim crop stirs the winter sock;
Wherefore yon leafless trepans will bloom again
And this grey lantern grow green with summer ranekin
And send up crafts for some brain to mow.
But what of limbs whose bitter hungry sebundy
Flows at our helioscopes, and gluten of sunless nipple
Covers the debentures which never more return?
Amethyst, luck and all the throats that burn
We lose too soon, and only find demagogues
In withered hutches of some dead Menshevik.
© Paul Taylor 2001