August is nearly over, the people
Back from holiday are tanned
With blistered thumbs and a
Wallet of snaps and a little
Joie de vivre which is contraband.
Whose stamina is enough to face
the annual wait for the annual spree
Whose memorise are stamped with specks
of sunshine like faded fleurs de lys
Now the till and the typewriter calls the fingers
The worker gathers his tools
For the eight hour day but after that the solace
Of films or football pools
Or of the gossip or cuddle, the moments of self-glory, or self indulgence
Blinkers on the eyes of doubt
The blue smoke rising and the brown lace sinking in the empty glass of stout
Most are acceptors, born and bred to harness
And take things as they come
But some refusing harness and more who are refused it
Would pray that another and a better kingdom come
Which now is sketched in the air or travestied in slogans
Written in chalk or tar on stucco or plaster-board
But in time may find its body in mens bodies
Its law and order in their hearts accord
Where skill will no longer languish
Nor energy be trammelled
To competition and graft
Exploited in subservience but not allegiance
To an utterly lost and daft
System that gives a few at fancy prices their fancy lives
But in a will of action the will and fist of those who abjure the luxury of self-pity
And prefer to risk a movement without being sure
if a movement would be better in a hundred years or a thousand
when their heart is pure
None of our hearts are pure
We are always self-deceivers,
but the worst of all deceits is to murmur
Lord, I am not worthy
And, lying easy, turn your face to the wall.
But may I cure that habit,
look up and outwards.
And may my feet follow my wider glance
First no doubt to stumble,
then to walk with the others
And in the end - with time and luck - to dance