BY THE THAMES
AT this white window by the Thames Where swans elide the labials of water, I sit and I must speak those names That, with my tongue like swan on thought, Are brought to my mind by these themes.
Here I span stones at twelve and under Bridges rigged bonfires with ragamuffins To warm a wind that chased us. 0 send A kinder wind to them, the bigger urchins, And wherever they are now, Time, be tender!
No, names that mean nothing, not To a verse I give you, idle recompense, Not to hereafter show you, but Now as I sit gazing at your absence I sense the gang of you hanging about.
What are they made of, these images Of recollection calling me in the evening, Recalling all the irresponsible stages?
Why are they continually intervening, And what shall answer to their messages?
Though long gone, a war and a world ago, Nevertheless they remain, bobbing and banging At the dust-shuttered reminiscent window Where I now lean—ghosts whose hanging Hereabouts makes me a memory also.
Joe, you down mines, may see me when The lens of sweat glistering at your eye Shows all the past in a crystaL Then See you me moving as formerly I moved near you and never shall again?
No, they go sadly or proudly about The business of their being, with No wasted sentiments, and without Skeletons inhabiting their faith. Shall I spare what they will not?
Because, anonymous and simple, They grow, like leaves, on the big tree Where, on a twig, I try my trumpet, They are the consummation of the Existence that is their example.
If, singing their praises, I raise A word that, by their virtues, lasts Half as long as they deserve, Then those hobnobbers of my past Shall live as long as ever. GEORGE BARKER.
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