The Best-Laid Schemes
We read the words that Robbie wrote, and wept.
The house was not important: just some grasses
In the stubble field. The moment passes,
But memories of sorrow will be kept.
All night long we dance in joyful masses,
Dance-halls filled with flash and glitter.
Night-jars nimbly dive and gaily twitter
As if the sky were made of laughing gases.
Yet late at night I sometimes hear the bitter
Growl of plow against the spreading furrow,
Hear the smash of harrow over burrow,
Leaving wasted life among the litter.
© Kevin Berland, 1999
Return to Pandæmonium Club page.
Go to next poem.