Michael Cayley
Dirge
The minutes are falling now, the hours are falling.
On the way home breadwinners barter the worn phrases
that shield them like off-the-peg suits or overalls,
drain half-a-pint of bitter and have one more.
The curtains are drawn now, the suppers are over.
Light snow spatters the windscreens in the streets
and drips through old bus tickets and cigarette ends
into the gutters in the dark.
The clapping has died now, the theatres are emptying.
A golden age of mission and empire
has passed into a pensioner’s soft-eyed
threnody for wallah and regiment.
The minutes are falling now, the hours are falling.
On the telly the weatherman gives the closing forecast.
The old hands pull the sheets round them, contentedly
wondering how long to the final finesse.
Page(s) 30
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