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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.