This was scribbled onto the back of a fag packet while having a cheeky smoke out of the window, it deals with the difficulty of seeing past the apparent and man made to something more true as well as the resulting disorientation. It isn’t one of my best, but it was the first stab at what has become one of my enduring themes so I felt I ought to include it.
The Low Constellations
The sunset is a band of green
And the light I have seen is spent in the West,
The sky undressed but for jewels of jets
That outburn the stars.
They are too near this earth to seem the ageless, endless, unjudging eyes
That looked on men in darker times;
Too clear in motive to astrologise
To clear in motion to ascribe a myth-
Here is one that did not chase the sun-
Here is one no goddess will ever hunt-
Here is one that rose in Munich in Heathrow falls-
That is all.
Yet they are all that burns this night
Their leading lamps are all the guide
For those who still dare in latter times
To raise their heads through smoke and glare
Still stare about with ancient eyes
And look to see the angel’s flight.
But theirs is not the angel flight
And theirs is not the starry bright
And thirty thousand feet is all
Not so far for man to fall.