Peasant Poet

I am the representative of those
Clay-faced sucklers of spade-handles
Mute peasants for whom Apollo blows
Aesthetic winds in nine-day-laboured scandals.
I am the hoarse cry of creatures who
Have never scratched in any kind of hand
On any wall the signs by which they knew
The endurable stone in the phantasmic land.

Their history is a grain of wheat. A season
The cycle of a race that will persist
When all the scintillating tribes of Reason
Are folded in a literary mist.
Fear-grey men of doom have kept for me
The foot-grip of an ancient surety.

§ Marked: ‘Dub Mag’.