Poem 77: The Lions Child

see how frantically

the coppered ants of time

rushing on rims of fire

scramble over your blazoned tiles

stacked like forgotten hymn books

running onto the bridge way

of your stained harsh windows

telling how gladly the giant topaz

has found his soul today

though trapped and bleeding

in the mitred porcelain church

of sterile dreaming’s

swaying busily above

your naked strutting forest

once large enough

to lose a thousand ways

but now so remotely slim and brittle

before the diamonds eye

warm and shining a brilliant applause

of fierce colours to amass

a festival of greetings

for the awakening of the lions child.