by Aidan Andrew Dun
Written during a period when the damned (Blair) government was cracking down on convoys and crusties, making the contemporary nomadic lifestyle impossible, Black Passing personifies Time as a dreadlocked traveller with no place to go.
The black country night of the present time
goes clinking with silver down the land,
small cries of newborn life and the constellations
in the rocking dark of late-august dog-days
when the near star rages and Isis goes howling
for the body of the summer, lately slain
in rising winds, his golden torso broken.
These early signs of death in the year,
and loss, the escaping quality of life,
show more brutally the small divisions,
ownership and loneliness everywhere here.
The year falls stumbling down, old hobo,
landless traveller across the earth,
mendicant time who wears tattered clothes,
whose hair is matted and thick with experience.
And the last country night of the royal stars
sighs in a long black avenue of limes,
pines for the outcast in deepening obscurity,
he who runs in his exodus westward,
once-green messiah of the bells and horns,
hat full of rainbows and coloured twilights,
crowned king of imperious summer gone.