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Their
round
eyes
bulged
with
brightness
;
their
claws
gripped
the
twig
or
rail
.
They
sang
,
exposed
without
shelter
,
to
the
air
and
the
sun
,
beautiful
in
their
new
plumage
,
shell-veined
or
brightly
mailed
,
here
barred
with
soft
blues
,
here
splashed
with
gold
,
or
striped
with
one
bright
feather
.
They
sang
as
if
the
song
were
urged
out
of
them
by
the
pressure
of
the
morning
.
They
sang
as
if
the
edge
of
being
were
sharpened
and
must
cut
,
must
split
the
softness
of
the
blue-green
light
,
the
dampness
of
the
wet
earth
;
the
fumes
and
steams
of
the
greasy
kitchen
vapour
;
the
hot
breath
of
mutton
and
beef
;
the
richness
of
pastry
and
fruit
;
the
damp
shreds
and
peelings
thrown
from
the
kitchen
bucket
,
from
which
a
slow
steam
oozed
on
the
rubbish
heap
.
On
all
the
sodden
,
the
damp-spotted
,
the
curled
with
wetness
,
they
descended
,
dry-beaked
,
ruthless
,
abrupt
.
They
swooped
suddenly
from
the
lilac
bough
or
the
fence
.
They
spied
a
snail
and
tapped
the
shell
against
a
stone
.
They
tapped
furiously
,
methodically
,
until
the
shell
broke
and
something
slimy
oozed
from
the
crack
.
They
swept
and
soared
sharply
in
flights
high
into
the
air
,
twittering
short
,
sharp
notes
,
and
perched
in
the
upper
branches
of
some
tree
,
and
looked
down
upon
leaves
and
spires
beneath
,
and
the
country
white
with
blossom
,
flowing
with
grass
,
and
the
sea
which
beat
like
a
drum
that
raises
a
regiment
of
plumed
and
turbaned
soldiers
.
Now
and
again
their
songs
ran
together
in
swift
scales
like
the
interlacings
of
a
mountain
stream
whose
waters
,
meeting
,
foam
and
then
mix
,
and
hasten
quicker
and
quicker
down
the
same
channel
,
brushing
the
same
broad
leaves
.
But
there
is
a
rock
;
they
sever
.
The
sun
fell
in
sharp
wedges
inside
the
room
.
Whatever
the
light
touched
became
dowered
with
a
fanatical
existence
.
A
plate
was
like
a
white
lake
.
A
knife
looked
like
a
dagger
of
ice
.
Suddenly
tumblers
revealed
themselves
upheld
by
streaks
of
light
.
Tables
and
chairs
rose
to
the
surface
as
if
they
had
been
sunk
under
water
and
rose
,
filmed
with
red
,
orange
,
purple
like
the
bloom
on
the
skin
of
ripe
fruit
.
The
veins
on
the
glaze
of
the
china
,
the
grain
of
the
wood
,
the
fibres
of
the
matting
became
more
and
more
finely
engraved
.
Everything
was
without
shadow
.
A
jar
was
so
green
that
the
eye
seemed
sucked
up
through
a
funnel
by
its
intensity
and
stuck
to
it
like
a
limpet
.
Then
shapes
took
on
mass
and
edge
.
Here
was
the
boss
of
a
chair
;
here
the
bulk
of
a
cupboard
.
And
as
the
light
increased
,
flocks
of
shadow
were
driven
before
it
and
conglomerated
and
hung
in
many-pleated
folds
in
the
background
.
'
How
fair
,
how
strange
,
'
said
Bernard
,
'
glittering
,
many-pointed
and
many-domed
London
lies
before
me
under
mist
.
Guarded
by
gasometers
,
by
factory
chimneys
,
she
lies
sleeping
as
we
approach
.
She
folds
the
ant-heap
to
her
breast
.
All
cries
,
all
clamour
,
are
softly
enveloped
in
silence
.
Not
Rome
herself
looks
more
majestic
.
But
we
are
aimed
at
her
.
Already
her
maternal
somnolence
is
uneasy
.
Ridges
,
fledged
with
houses
rise
from
the
mist
.
Factories
,
cathedrals
,
glass
domes
,
institutions
and
theatres
erect
themselves
.
The
early
train
from
the
north
is
hurled
at
her
like
a
missile
.
We
draw
a
curtain
as
we
pass
.
Blank
expectant
faces
stare
at
us
as
we
rattle
and
flash
through
stations
.
Men
clutch
their
newspapers
a
little
tighter
,
as
our
wind
sweeps
them
,
envisaging
death
.
But
we
roar
on
.
We
are
about
to
explode
in
the
flanks
of
the
city
like
a
shell
in
the
side
of
some
ponderous
,
maternal
,
majestic
animal
.
She
hums
and
murmurs
;
she
awaits
us
.
'M
eanwhile
as
I
stand
looking
from
the
train
window
,
I
feel
strangely
,
persuasively
,
that
because
of
my
great
happiness
(
being
engaged
to
be
married
)
I
am
become
part
of
this
speed
,
this
missile
hurled
at
the
city
.
I
am
numbed
to
tolerance
and
acquiescence
.
My
dear
sir
,
I
could
say
,
why
do
you
fidget
,
taking
down
your
suitcase
and
pressing
into
it
the
cap
that
you
have
worn
all
night
?
Nothing
we
can
do
will
avail
.
Over
us
all
broods
a
splendid
unanimity
.
We
are
enlarged
and
solemnized
and
brushed
into
uniformity
as
with
the
grey
wing
of
some
enormous
goose
(
it
is
a
fine
but
colourless
morning
)
because
we
have
only
one
desire
--
to
arrive
at
the
station
.
I
do
not
want
the
train
to
stop
with
a
thud
.
I
do
not
want
the
connection
which
has
bound
us
together
sitting
opposite
each
other
all
night
long
to
be
broken
.
I
do
not
want
to
feel
that
hate
and
rivalry
have
resumed
their
sway
;
and
different
desires
.
Our
community
in
the
rushing
train
,
sitting
together
with
only
one
wish
,
to
arrive
at
Euston
,
was
very
welcome
.
But
behold
!
It
is
over
.
We
have
attained
our
desire
.
We
have
drawn
up
at
the
platform
.
Hurry
and
confusion
and
the
wish
to
be
first
through
the
gate
into
the
lift
assert
themselves
.
But
I
do
not
wish
to
be
first
through
the
gate
,
to
assume
the
burden
of
individual
life
.
I
,
who
have
been
since
Monday
,
when
she
accepted
me
,
charged
in
every
nerve
with
a
sense
of
identity
,
who
could
not
see
a
tooth-brush
in
a
glass
without
saying
,
"
My
toothbrush
"
,
now
wish
to
unclasp
my
hands
and
let
fall
my
possessions
,
and
merely
stand
here
in
the
street
,
taking
no
part
,
watching
the
omnibuses
,
without
desire
;
without
envy
;
with
what
would
be
boundless
curiosity
about
human
destiny
if
there
were
any
longer
an
edge
to
my
mind
.
But
it
has
none
.
I
have
arrived
;
am
accepted
.
I
ask
nothing
.
'
Having
dropped
off
satisfied
like
a
child
from
the
breast
,
I
am
at
liberty
now
to
sink
down
,
deep
,
into
what
passes
,
this
omnipresent
,
general
life
.
(
How
much
,
let
me
note
,
depends
upon
trousers
;
the
intelligent
head
is
entirely
handicapped
by
shabby
trousers
.
)
One
observes
curious
hesitations
at
the
door
of
the
lift
.
This
way
,
that
way
,
the
other
?
Then
individuality
asserts
itself
.
They
are
off
.
They
are
all
impelled
by
some
necessity
.
Some
miserable
affair
of
keeping
an
appointment
,
of
buying
a
hat
,
severs
these
beautiful
human
beings
once
so
united
.
For
myself
,
I
have
no
aim
.
I
have
no
ambition
.
I
will
let
myself
be
carried
on
by
the
general
impulse
.
The
surface
of
my
mind
slips
along
like
a
pale-grey
stream
,
reflecting
what
passes
.
I
can
not
remember
my
past
,
my
nose
,
or
the
colour
of
my
eyes
,
or
what
my
general
opinion
of
myself
is
.
Only
in
moments
of
emergency
,
at
a
crossing
,
at
a
kerb
,
the
wish
to
preserve
my
body
springs
out
and
seizes
me
and
stops
me
,
here
,
before
this
omnibus
.
We
insist
,
it
seems
,
on
living
.
Then
again
,
indifference
descends
.
The
roar
of
the
traffic
,
the
passage
of
undifferentiated
faces
,
this
way
and
that
way
,
drugs
me
into
dreams
;
rubs
the
features
from
faces
.
People
might
walk
through
me
.
And
,
what
is
this
moment
of
time
,
this
particular
day
in
which
I
have
found
myself
caught
?
The
growl
of
traffic
might
be
any
uproar
--
forest
trees
or
the
roar
of
wild
beasts
.
Time
has
whizzed
back
an
inch
or
two
on
its
reel
;
our
short
progress
has
been
cancelled
.
I
think
also
that
our
bodies
are
in
truth
naked
.
We
are
only
lightly
covered
with
buttoned
cloth
;
and
beneath
these
pavements
are
shells
,
bones
and
silence
.
'
It
is
,
however
,
true
that
my
dreaming
,
my
tentative
advance
like
one
carried
beneath
the
surface
of
a
stream
,
is
interrupted
,
torn
,
pricked
and
plucked
at
by
sensations
,
spontaneous
and
irrelevant
,
of
curiosity
,
greed
,
desire
,
irresponsible
as
in
sleep
.
(
I
covet
that
bag
--
etc.
)
No
,
but
I
wish
to
go
under
;
to
visit
the
profound
depths
;
once
in
a
while
to
exercise
my
prerogative
not
always
to
act
,
but
to
explore
;
to
hear
vague
,
ancestral
sounds
of
boughs
creaking
,
of
mammoths
;
to
indulge
impossible
desires
to
embrace
the
whole
world
with
the
arms
of
understanding
--
impossible
to
those
who
act
.
Am
I
not
,
as
I
walk
,
trembling
with
strange
oscillations
and
vibrations
of
sympathy
,
which
,
unmoored
as
I
am
from
a
private
being
,
bid
me
embrace
these
engrossed
flocks
;
these
starers
and
trippers
;
these
errand-boys
and
furtive
and
fugitive
girls
who
,
ignoring
their
doom
,
look
in
at
shop-windows
?
But
I
am
aware
of
our
ephemeral
passage
.
