The place where many histories were made
And where meridian marks mortality to all
Our city days; here time squats on Observatory
Hill, watching, counting, ticking, each moment
Has fled as distinct as the mass of water heads
Past the college and prosperity’s isle. This is
The mirror reflecting eternity on all the built
Labouring folly, as monuments arise and are
Deleted in the flick of an imaginary finger. Here
Reality elbows its way past the guard of tonight’s
Clubbing, from which the loft-dweller returns to
Pristine architecture; and tomorrow, a leisured walk
In the immaculate park, followed by city tower’s return,
And the exotic dreamed for holiday;
(Which, every year, never quite satisfies).
And here the arbiter squats on the summit,
Like a movie monster, but no dismissable Godzilla.
This is the ravager of days, years, looks; the picture
In the attic is old, withered, grey. As executive housing
Sucked working life from the river, so life drains
From every high-flier - from Icarus until the present moment.
Wreaths of smoke hung over the city; the bombers pounded
And fire leapt up from the ground; but when the last bomb
Fell, like the rain storm receding, we rebuilt only
To submit to this inexorable tyrants lash. Centuries and
Progress are chaff to the chariot wheels of oblivion, which
Must drop down on every civilisation. Our city boys are
But the latest recruits; fresh-faced they join the parade,
Believing that they will share the fruits of victory. Until,
Dying in anonymous trenches, watching life fail before their eyes;
Too late, they had enlisted in the service of lies.
© 2001 Philip Kemp