PUBLIC LIBRARY
Luca men looking for jobs, the fingers turn the pages, The eyes stumble on a word, a phrase, • • ' • The eyes are like damp sticks in a high wind, But the eyes light up, and there is only the crackling of the pages.
The clock speaks to itself, the pages rustle, and Somewhen towards noon the man in the knitted scarf Turns from the grim historian to the red-eyed prophet, And still the hands are eager.
The difficult knotted brow, the eager fingers (A child clutching a bag of sweets), Pause over the outlandish name and the long word Only the lurching trams rattle the tall windows.
The pen dipped in bitterness and truth Has humbled the great names and drilled the conscripts ; The words are black crows hooded against the light, The words have their own dance and will not speak.
This is no salve for the sore mind and bitter memory, The_ fOugh pages stained with tea and margarine : The dock points to the honk, street-boys are calling the Evening Special ; The words are glittering streams and falling towers.
MICHAEL ROBERTS; •
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