Sunday, August 13, 2006
21st Century Calendar
The month of the wolf.
At the edge of the 1ight.
The sprouting month.
Yes. T.S., that body that we strove to hide,
It won ' t stay out of sight.
The month of noisy wind.
Vulpine howling through the wires.
We stop our ears.
The month of the rising.
We wait at the gates, but the stone
Is unmoved by our tears.
Three milk month.
We twist our heads away
From the cup held to our lips.
The dry month.
We strain to reach but
The cup is snatched away before we sip.
Champagne laughter at the river’s edge,
On the other side of the grass.
Houses with their eyes poked out,
Willowherb spreading fast.
Long queues forming.
Beggars bent low beneath the arches,
Gape-jawed , slack-eyed, all knowing.
Blood month. .
On marble slabs
A merciless, blinding light.
Long endless night.
The wolves are waiting, out of sight.
The first version of this poem was born out of deep pessimism about Thatcherism. How were we to know that New Labour would move even further to the right and even faster? The structure for the 'calendar' follows an old medieval form.