World on Sunday

Brown lilac, roses filled with rain;
Hay fever steaming off mown grass
Traffic roars down the underpass
Like water swallowed by a drain.

Disordered beds where we have lain;
Life and death offered at Mass;
Our thoughts are giddy, weak, and crass.
It isn’t easy to explain.

Dusk brings wanderers out again,
Kept moving by a sense of loss.
The lights change; cars and people cross.

I turn back from the sunset stain.
A huge moon yellow like dull brass
Lengthens my shadow down the lane.