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The Mist Procession
In the mist procession wending past my life, there are many old shapes so many new faces, that I see sometimes, and sometimes again.
Sometimes,
amidst bookshelves adjusting dust covers and writing bills, almond eyes round face hill-fresh gaunt limbs
Sometimes,
on carpet lined corridors Salver on finger tips black and white minstrel black dot black shock of hair waiting on others.
Sometimes,
fetching files
answering bells
carrying missives back
and forth high
born
plains bred
Sometimes,
Scythian profiles
standing guard
at a far-off chancery
warrior images
erect and greying gently
Sometimes,
in the Qutb’s shadow
hawking carpets
machine made,
lurking under a tree
in darkening gloom,
as shadows close
over old tombs
and watered grass.
Sometimes,
In a desert palace
behind a hotel counter
booking rooms for Germans;
then climbing narrow stairs
to hidden terraces
and niches with curtained doors.
Sometimes,
in spiked shoes
long-legged
slim-hipped paces,
as metres vanish
hair rises in the wind
and the shape is lost
to distant spaces.
And the mist procession
moves on
in never ending traces,
so many new shapes
so many old faces
that I see sometimes
and sometimes again.
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