The wave

the day has come

it came a long age ago

already

upon a wave of slate-coloured horses

crashing on the break of day

shafting through the tide

of upright and slender trees

upright and slender as pencils

the day has come

and we're marching on

marching on marching

on the back of elephants

through the savannah

of newly-built watchtowers

march–

for the day has come

with-out the wave

it might never have

come it did

how many of us ended

up gloating at the end

of a rope

swinging and squealing

in the wave

of slate-coloured manes

how many of us

to all intents and purposes

impregnable

now quieted

now sweeping past the sheds

the houses of calm

passed the Sleeping Peoples

grim, mud-covered,

follow we follow

trudging along we make a hell of a noise!

whilst the wave amidst

us pours and pours

ploughs forth

gathers momentum

and branches and coals

mélanged with corals

from distant shores

we are taken away

pinched by the mentum

like renegade schoolchildren

we cannot but follow

follow we follow

taken away

following

on the arch of the wave

of slate-coloured chargers

breaking through dawn

like there was no tomorrow

and pregnant women smile

through the contractions

the stampede is a good omen

always have, always will be

and our contraptions

waiting for us in the half-light

half-flight before time ends

waste of daylight

capering in convincing happiness

they weren't pregnant women

with hindsight

but someone had to smile

so we chose those whom the horses

chose to ignore

and bade them smile

not simper or smirk

but smile genuinely

and we bowed down and curtsied

scared mindless

while the wave wound past us

swashed our toes

in the pallid

morning when all unbroken dreams gone astray

are gathered

before the break of day

as of yore

to be swept away

to be swept away

as of yore

to be swept away

in a furore.