Vernon Scannell
In Regent’s Park
Above the tower-blocks’ squinting geometries
A homing jet slides down the silky sky,
Its human freight invisible to us
As we to them with those things we can see:
Slow juggling of bright traffic-lights, the heap
Of crumpled misery dumped upon the bench
Inside the park whose mimicry of sleep
Allows no rest or respite from the stench
Of what he has become. No healing dreams
For him and yet, close by in that same park,
The famous summer Dream unfolds and holds
Both players and an audience that seems
Entranced, although two folk from Portland Maine,
Express vague puzzlement because, for them,
Ass and Bottom are straight synonyms.
Page(s) 83
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