Necropolis
Do
you
doubt me,
my dear friend,
when I say there is
to be found a darkling hamlet
underground behind the cataract at river's end?
Come with me. Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets
and alleyways, down the cobbled maze to where road's-end meets
the river's edge in grey mist and the paving ends in sedge.
There, where combers boom beyond the spray-damp rocky ledge,
the mighty river, its journey to the sea, completes.
Under our sunlit city on the broad river's shores,
another lurks in darkness. It
lies hidden where the
torrent roars
into
the
sea.
As
we
clamber
down cliffside
in dusk's low amber
light, the shadow of the western
headland falls full upon the entrance - our faithful guide.
Behind the curtain of the waterfall, the path's well-worn.
The cavern, vast and dim, is full of people, so forlorn,
their eyes are dimmer still. Too poor even for city slums,
they live in grimy grottos; sustain themselves on crumbs.
Hidden from the fortunate, no one can hear them mourn.
We are free, my friend, to go back to our well-lit homes,
to walk in sunlight, warm and fed.
These who stay where the
river foams?
Are they
not
dead?
