Jerusalem

[Ca ne fait rien]

Bottom the Weaver
Rides the tram,
an illuminated shuttle
thrown across the warp
of commercial provincialism;
climbs the purple moors and hills
until the chimney line recedes
into a dim memory of leather-patched pipepuffs
And red-faced overseers.

He breathes coldblast of Pennine air
above boxed Sunday claustrophobia
of Dark Satanic Mills and Chapels 
and smoke-stained Bradford thoroughfares
with shuttered shops and mufflered men
loitering on street corners
waiting for the pubs to open.

Deaf from clanking looms
and jangling cashboxes
of Methody elders who preach
the creed of worsted charity
in booming voices
from plain-speaking lecterns
to a free -market world,
he offers his song softly
to the larks and red kites,
who cut the air with sarcastic wings,
and mock his asses' ears.

He fantasizes endless roles
that he could play;
the lover, nay, the tyrant,
or the lion that roars sweet
as the trilling nightingale;
any part that suits his diffident
and courteous woolly wit
and frightens not the ladies
(who have no reason to love
him, except reason and love
keep little company nowadays)
or the horses. Bottom the Weaver
lies on earthy heather beds
‘neath scudding
mucky skies and dreams.