There was a carpenter at my door,
And the smell and sound of the paint blew into
My nostrils and ears, and gathered
My thoughts, as I looked out of the window
With my hands warm among the washing socks
To the wet earth sodden with too much water
And the green plants persisting
Among the cavernous ruins.
And this I remembered.
It was a long time ago and they were
Of yellow brick. The books charred and torn
Falling out of their structure.
Such is the justice of man that he will
Appal at such destruction; yet for the same feat,
Go with heroic strides to have his own breast
Plated with tinkling medals.
Under this Sacred Temple,
Inner Temple and London's Shrine, such
A week's devastation melted half the
Block with the fury of rising flame-throwers.
Then to Pimlico where I took the bus...
I found warm flesh charred...
It was a long time ago,
And there at the same time a family
Unknown gave me an egg from their only hen
And an armful of mauve lilac:
They promised me as well some Iris roots,
'They'd send to Wales', they said.
I ate the egg. Destroyed my soul,
For such an immense tragedy can not withold a soul.
But I did not receive the Iris roots.