Jerusalem - Page 220

And sensibility. Den’s narrative

Thus far, he sees now, lacks maturity,

A consequence of inability

To put forced stanzas by and only live

His language, though it goes unread

And unrewarded. No more self-deceit.

He’ll go home, face his folks, work in a shop,

Pay off his debt and wait for the day when

He’s had a life to write about. Just then

A scuffed blue Volkswagen grinds to a stop

At the round-shouldered curbside up the street.

A dreadlocked woman climbs out to assist

Her passenger, a thin girl of mixed race,

The younger of the two and yet more frail

With bandages in lieu of bridal veil

Surmounting her exquisite, battered face

And wedding flowers clutched in one trembling fist

To emphasise the matrimonial air.

Their car left at the corner of the block

One helps the other slowly up the hill

Out of Den’s line of sight, though he can still

Hear their muffled exchange before they knock

The door of the lone house that’s standing there,

This summons answered after a long pause.

There’s conversation too hushed to make out

Before the women, minus one bouquet,

Return to their parked car and drive away,

A striking vignette which leaves Den in doubt

Regarding its effect, still more its cause,

But then, the world won’t scan as poetry.

Tags: Alan Moore Fantasy
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