By Alma Strettell
225
Weaving the garment, mesh by mesh amain,
Of destitution for each house and wall,
And fences that enfold
The villages, neglected, grey, and old:
Chaplets of rags and linen shreds that fall
In frayed-out wisps from upright poles and tall,
Blue pigeon-houses glued against the thatch,
And windows with a patch
Of dingy paper on each lowering pane,
Houses with straight-set gutters, side by side,
Across the broad stone gambles crucified,
Mills, uniform, forlorn,
Each rising from its hillock like a horn,
Steeples afar and chapels round about,
The rain, the long, long rain,
Through all the winter wears and wears them out.
Of destitution for each house and wall,
And fences that enfold
The villages, neglected, grey, and old:
Chaplets of rags and linen shreds that fall
In frayed-out wisps from upright poles and tall,
Blue pigeon-houses glued against the thatch,
And windows with a patch
Of dingy paper on each lowering pane,
Houses with straight-set gutters, side by side,
Across the broad stone gambles crucified,
Mills, uniform, forlorn,
Each rising from its hillock like a horn,
Steeples afar and chapels round about,
The rain, the long, long rain,
Through all the winter wears and wears them out.
Rain, the long rain,
With wrinkles, and grey nails, and watery strands
Of hair that downward flow,
The long rain of these old, old lands,
Eternal, torpid, slow!
With wrinkles, and grey nails, and watery strands
Of hair that downward flow,
The long rain of these old, old lands,
Eternal, torpid, slow!