CRICKHOWELL
It’s thirty back in London; streams of mud
Flow through this valley where the idyll asks
All peaceniks to ignore the constant thud
Of bass bouncing off heavy mists which mask
What wonder is on offer. The sky breaks,
Then the sky closes - distant thunder, or
Perhaps sound check for Alabama Shakes
Or some band blunt enough to rock the floor.
.
En masse, the wide-eyed hordes came here for this –
The dryads, or the druids – to be frank
It’s fluid. Are those maenads wild with bliss
Or trustafarians ruing what they drank?
The evening falls. The rain stops. In the bowl,
The weekend finds its meaning and its soul.
ATHENS
They went to the Acropolis to row about
Oasis, Blur and other great ideas
Born of democracy. They raised the shout
‘cross Epidavros and the Pnyx – “Bogeys”
… a growing, boldening sound. The people will
Be heard – “Bogeys!” Aristophanic wit
At large – upon no more all-hallowed hill
Have flies so swiftly turned high ideals to shit.
And in the end, the ostracon was marked
By all against the lawgiver gone-wrong
as rank hypocrisy was smelt, and sparked
rebellion best expressed by evening song.
The chorus aired its damnatory verse –
Is tyranny or treachery the worse?
No comments:
Post a Comment