Sword Blades
The Cyclists
 

Spread on the roadway,
With open-blown jackets,
Like black, soaring pinions,
They swoop down the hillside,
       The Cyclists.

Seeming dark-plumaged
Birds, after carrion,
Careening and circling,
Over the dying
       Of England.

She lies with her bosom
Beneath them, no longer
The Dominant Mother,
The Virile -- but rotting
       Before time.

The smell of her, tainted,
Has bitten their nostrils.
Exultant they hover,
And shadow the sun with
       Foreboding.