Incarnation

(with thanks to W.H. Auden)

If you lived up there you’d drink a deeper light, 
Moons would dog your feet,
And all ways would be clear.

Meanwhile, here, ageless and agèd, we tarry,
Lean our elbows on the wall, and watch
The young comers strive valiantly with their natures.

With the fortifications so weak, the police so inept,
Still, dandies linger all the golden afternoon
Over Bordeaux and petits fours.

In her alley of midnight, in her dress of patch and tatters,
She waits for one last customer, and 
Eyes her advancing age, calculating.

The young roughs rouge their buttocks and genitals
In an anguished sally
To attract anyone’s outrage.

Lust stalks the streets at noon
That used to lurk at night,
And chases laughing children through the playground.

The League of Saints stains their honor
With theocracy, then wonder
Why God boycotts their visions.

Crazed, the mirror cracks;
The family flee each other,
Tangled in their common pain.

Voters mutter and mumble in crowds,
Eyeing the Cabinet with distrust and doubt;
A charming psychopath figures his odds.

Lost in the highlands among crags,
The legitimate heir underestimates
The trials before him; how many he will betray.

All day long, the machine grinds on,
And teaches the young
To smile.

The crab tree hooks a sickle moon like a finger.
Languid ladies with geraniums festoon the battlements in black.
An endless army of beggars sidles over the hills.

With enticements like these, 
The young and adventurous return eagerly
Again and again. 

© Larry Haworth 2013