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The Heirs

I cannot help but think it right

That Muses sing and Muses write

To the ends of the all-encroaching night

And that the policy of Mary Patten

In love with light from a far-off lantern

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Illumines the time in rounded breeches

Fat on the foam that beats on the beaches

And flows on the foil of trees at dusk,

Illumined silvers of secreted musk.

If all this is merely mumbojumbo

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You’ve got to realise I’m seated at prayer

Upon a toil seat of unhappy heirs.

(from “The Light Of Day (1)”)

What do you think?

2 points

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