Playgrounds
Gutted of clay, the marl pit Is the mesa where the bad men wait; Tomorrow, no-man's land, alert With partisan patrols and next week Planetary station one, Where rockets break their journey to flat moon.
May burdens the hawthorn And the lark winds higher Than the pit-head into fresh air; Daisies spot the lawn And evenings lengthen into summer.
Through willow-herbs the children spy On golf-links where the lovers lie, Paroled from shop and colliery; And crawling back through lanes Of seeding grass, they imitate The acts of love rehearsed in private.
Rain soaks the red marquee At Burslem Wakes and nightly the big dipper Dives to the fairground like an empty star; The cats stay home and in the chemists' bay A leech capsizes with the weather.
Old men with their pipes unlit Nod in the sun while winter takes their seat; Long past escape to field or yellow pit They line the graveyard path where children Skip, scattering the gravel in their game, And choose like them the playground nearest home.
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