- Vol. 07
- Chapter 02
William Blake dreams of London in its current condition
I made a makeshift game of skittles,
at which the carefree clouds descended;
they viewed my neatly chevron’d bottles;
their mockery was all too candid.
A chorus issued from those vapours,
a jeering travesty of hope.
“Do you not mark the evening papers?
The time, they say, is overripe
to look and see things as they are –
to see beyond your carelessness.”
And as I stooped to bowl, I saw
a plastic-towered wilderness;
the skittled lane I’d made gave way
to London choked. As in a dream,
the wasted river throbbed; astray,
I stumbled from that toxic stream.
Perhaps I woke – I cannot tell –
but thick-aired day revealed the worst.
My plastic game went on while all
our innocents expired of thirst.