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Death was no empty hat, but a swung trapeze
swept through a hall of song.
Hung on a silver wire, the winging bar
leaped in a singing breeze.
Riding with woe, the sweet violins of home
grieved in the high wall-lilac
and the cadences of a shadowless piper called
piteously from old pavements.
I heard, with the sighs of centuries, pagan notes
whispering in the cupola,
and saw in the flare of thunderhooks, scarecrow skies
with wondering savage moons,
and a horn with flag-ribbons blown by a coloured bird
flying before my eyes.
Eric Ratcliffe
Read poems about / on: silver, song, home, death, sky
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