The buses leave at dawn, with protest songs
On the lips of the old and young alike,
Returning in warm numb silence at night
On the eve of revolution. The throngs
Go back to work having righted the wrongs
Of this world, or at least done their bit right,
Like the painters of the Forth Bridge despite
Their endless task I know the day belongs
To them for trying. In another heart
Idealism settles like frost, I see
A paint has been developed which is hard
Enough to last a quarter century.
If the scaffolds are redundant, each part
Wonders, should we still revolt constantly?