david.bircumshaw wrote:
>
> An illusion of sufficiency adhered
> to the world; an impression held
> of great battles lost on the knives
> that blue heroes shone on waste
> lands and night's wide. Was it that
> an answer at last had stitched itself
> inside? Was it that the taste
> of days had not this time dribbled
> away in long leakages of savour?
> Or that ghostly weather above,
> smokily balletic as thoughts,
> had seeded a fresh narrative
> into the worn yarns of dried, inland
> sailors? The heroes
>
> were blue, beaten, and fell like ice.
> The sun was singing through them.
> Their statues, that loomed like sirens
> above each forgetting daycallen,
> summoners of tyres, offices, tarmac,
> hushed and evanesced in whispers,
> like crowds startled into people.
> For this breath, at least,
> the poem emerged
>
> from the sky's head, and the thread
> was spun, as to itself as lilies.
>
> David Bircumshaw
>
> Leicester, England
>
>
What is a "daycallen"?
"Crowds startled into people" is good.
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