The Horsemen
Budapest, November 4, 1956 There, where the women bent above the grain In blackened scarves, the stone road broke and veered Across the fields, towards the flames. No sound Except the steady grinding whirr of wheels Woke the slow larks. The sun rose. And its blaze Across the white plain where the autumn crop Stirred in the wind, seared the still-burning walls Far-off, in dark still. Here, gloved hands lay cold Along steel hatches where each hinge of oil Shone in the light rising. That light falling, Miles on and later, brought the winter night To boys who lay with petrol and pierced cans, Awake in cellars, waiting. Some had burned Only for their idea of what it was To have been born there, blazed in hatching fire Along the backs of huge tanks, broached and curled In sticky flame. And now their cold heirs came West to the bridges and the shallow hill Below the castle, aged in foreign steel For a new rising. Somewhere the gold star Fell in the east and, thinking they were sold In Africa, they came to level grain Along this road. And, as their long clear eyes Veered in the grey light, the steel hatches closed, And once more they were horsemen, galloping.
GEORGE MACBETH
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