Lamentation for Iron

This field sunk down with weeds
Is nothing thicker than the dirt;
And the wandering breezes sift phi
Among the single blades of grass
Set towards the ring—the plow,
Beautiful as silent flesh —
Whispers heard across these wasted heavens
Grove the laughter into her hold,
‘Then speak no more so bluntly, breezeless wind.’

And I would pen marks with cold
Against the armful of each field —
Nearing sleep, but not quite yet,
And let the dusk dis/emerge
From hunger to ghostly pages down —
Pride and passion; ghostly margins,
Where the dancers grew withir —
So silence takes rise again;
This, our land swept back in time.

• Louis MacNeice