World on Sunday

Brown lilac, roses filled with rain;

Hay fever steaming off mown grass.

Traffic roars down the underpass

Like water swallowed by a drain.

JAMES MC AULEY

Disordered beds where we have lain;

Life and death offered at Mass;

Our thoughts are giddy, weak, and crass.

It isn't easy to explain.

Dusk brings wanderers out again,

Kept moving by a sense of loss.

The lights change; cars and people cross.

I turn back from the sunset stain.

A huge moon yellow like dull brass

Lengthens my shadow down the lane.

IN THE GARDENS

Poor Summer with corroded face

And sightless eyes looks down the path,

Holding a meagre aftermath

Of spoiled grain in her numb embrace.

Mosaics of decay, dark lace,

: Pale mildews cling to leaf and lath.

Deep in shadow down the path

Two lovers waver and embrace.

The stragglers leave. The iron gates close.

Softly gleams the lily-pond.

A late bee hovers round the rose.

And the gentle nymph's blank eyes

Seem to seek and see beyond

The park, the city, and the skies.