The life-lorn dingo's sadly haunting calls
The life-lorn dingo's sadly haunting calls
are like the bell that tolls the word `alone'.
As sun sinks down and scented evening falls
the firelight rising warms primeval stone.
No man is near, within two hundred miles,
but I am not alone; can never be,
for Bach is here and rings from every pile
of rock, and homer sings his stories inside me.
From Gilgamesh to Eliot all are here.
How much I thank my teachers: most long dead,
who stirred some depths in me to see and hear
the artists of the ages in my head.
The stars swing on; the shadows shuffle near
of such delight some trace must linger here.
are like the bell that tolls the word `alone'.
As sun sinks down and scented evening falls
the firelight rising warms primeval stone.
No man is near, within two hundred miles,
but I am not alone; can never be,
for Bach is here and rings from every pile
of rock, and homer sings his stories inside me.
From Gilgamesh to Eliot all are here.
How much I thank my teachers: most long dead,
who stirred some depths in me to see and hear
the artists of the ages in my head.
The stars swing on; the shadows shuffle near
of such delight some trace must linger here.
[from the Desert of my Heart and Mind by F.J.A.Pockley 1912-1990]
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