The afternoon's a pallid monochrome
Like dim memories of dream-grey seas;
Within the unkempt borders of my room
I toss and turn the pages of my Yeats,
While form a corner, in counterpoint, jazz tunes
In husky spirals climb the afternoon
Air, smelling of sultry southern nights,
Of smoky conversations in darkened bars;
Imagined in a high-contrast black and whitek
Set to a background score of street-cars
Now nameless, while the Irishman raves
Of faery horses trampling upon waves
In times now beyond imagining
Dream-wrapped druids mumble secret runes
Upon Tara's summit, to the High King;
Grim horsemen pass through the night and are gone.
Gone the trumpets wailing out a score
Note by note, as love walks out the door
In syncopated steps; Fitzgerald glides
Across shimmering cymbals, through the old
Georgia of her mind's countryside.
A sudden madness of sound enfolds
The New Orleans twilight's reverie
Like shadows of some danaan melody
That throbbed in the heart of James Connolly
From the Isles of the Young, as he played
His last act, aflame with ecstasy;
And then went upon the secret ways
Where ride the fierce Horsemen of the Night,
Upon the mountains wrapped in purple light.
But now a glimmering of sun breaks through
This haze of dreams, their flickering shadows pass
Out of mind; and on rain-wet wings go
Across the dream-drenched seas, a scent of loss
Lingers in the air that's now too plain,
But echoes of the Horsemen remain.
