Sunday, 15 April 2012

A poem from long ago

Here's a poem by Enoch Powell from between the wars:

In far Australia to sleep
You snuggle down; I here
Fancy that in your arms you keep
The world’s wide sphere –
This whole great multi-coloured All,
No larger than a playing-ball.
But if I move my lips to speak
Or try to touch your hand,
The coloured tissues with a shriek
To monstrous form expand,
And I apart from you am hurled
Across the endless, dreary world.


(I haven't been able to find the copyright holder -- Falcon Press, which originally published this, doesn't seem to exist. Get in touch if you are the copyright holder and wish to object.)