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Alison J. Bielski

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Nocturne

The city cry is loud tonight,
out of streets and lighted windows
a slow moan moves on the wind.
Who watches from silent office block,
looks up from weeping basement room
to this howling town crashing its way
over long-buried sleeping fields,
must run, run and never look back
where the manic monster stalks.

In hills and hedges, lovers lie
close to spinning earth and galaxy,
one with space, earth and sky;
life ticks on thin wrists unheeded.
Are they masters of civilisation,
frustrated children, slipping coils
of an urban claustrophobia?
Lie still under stabbing stars,
while a slow moan moves on the wind.

There is no humility in towns,
cities grow old and tumble to ruins;
there is no permanent value in them.
What will be left of our century
when time has rotted away, and man
mingled with dust of a planner’s dream?
New green grass sprouting under stones
will scatter swollen pollen grains
where a slow moan moved on the wind.

Only earth’s lovers and country folk
inherit time’s simple values,
accepting their role in the plan
unfolding season by season.
They understand perspectives, with eyes
attuned to steady horizons.
The city cry is loud tonight,
out of streets and lighted windows
a slow moan moves on the wind.

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