Peter Gilmour
Levelling
Think of it, on this calmest of calm days
There’s a definite flaw, purposefully
Planted, is what they all feel, the marquee
Beginning to quiver about it’s poles,
Then down the poles to the waiting earth,
A shuddering, as from earth upwards actually,
So that those inside in their hundreds
Turn to each other and see only terror.
To be silenced, like shot birds, is what they fear,
From the cheap ecstasies of their leisure
Brought down. Mouldering, too rich for too long,
They tell themselves stories, or stories waylay them,
As though it is another who tells them,
Some genius who holds their past and future
In his hands, and who, consummately clear,
Can see it, the shape of calamity.
Page(s) 30
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