On Waterloo Bridge I eat
a thousand languages
with my back to the world.
I taste its smell with the riches
of earth. I invent a home
for each continent of light. I find
a place for each island and man.
History is like music, a tradition
On a stone clock with gold hands,
the sun is setting on the hour.
Towering over churches of rest,
the City of London, its universal
tongue. Go in peace; the
water is equal to your destination.
Hanging around my neck the soul
of the twentieth century,
still warm from its dark cremations.
into its eyes I suggest a final number.
I hear millions and millions of voices.
The innocent conduct house to house
searches and like
grim fathers the evil return with flowers.
Green with animal nature,
the blood of countless races oozes out
of the death of its unspeakable hands.
Hoarse screams and blind laughter reach
a climax and coagulate. I snap my fingers.
I pass out rushes of light.
Returned from trances with peaceful and
calm revelations the children of snow
coloured forests and dangerous inventions.
Austin McCarron © 2011