Welsh Journals

BLITZKRIEG Civilization versus (or otherwise) The poet who leaves his entrails with his sting; But yet On every plane of being Clatters the flap of an abandoned tent Faces painted to an image of healthiness Where pestilence passes the sentry without challenge, When We Were Young The soil itself smouldered The pavings harsh and slippery Underfoot, with distant discord and the Swift slew of lights. Then silence. Torches advanced across an anonymous continent Rending of the sky the decent-blue veil Revealed the obscene blackness of ages; Terror transcendent that the face so beloved Should fill with such menace, clasped Their remnants wide and mute like a cold child Leaving behind a petrified ethic In the wake, a generation of frozen smiles. And we knew a pretence we had never truly known Was violated beyond redemption. Gingerly waking Sooner or later Night after night Or shaken from slumber To huddle in uncomfortable blankets under the stairs Where a small electric bulb gutters In a circle of anxious faces. Hands Toying with unidentifiable pieces of metal And caressing damp and tired feet while rain Hangs about the street corners of the sky; Our identity a stamped card, the prevailing