Lament

Oh, Sunrise,
You beaches,
It is no favour I ask.
Will you come again?
Oh, Beaches,
You sand-grains,
Speck of red, oh rising sun.

Laburnum, death-yellow,
You Larkspurs,
Dark Broom, Asphodel,
Are you coming home
Or is it night
Where I set foot
In memory of you?

Tall Nimbus,
You arching skies,
Have you broken with posterity?
Is the harvest over?
Dry grass on dead roots,
Oh, Stratus,
Curving Heaven forfend.

© BH, 1980

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So, back in the mists of time, I wrote this on a train somewhere south of Huntly, heading south or north. I can’t quite say which.

I was never sure what it was about. Now, on re-reading, it’s like an ode to the dislocated environment. More relevant now than ever.

Disappointing to think we knew then what we know now. But nobody paid a blind bit of attention. What a waste of 36 years.