The Silver Age
When one day you look upon all creation's glories
in glass encasement and dusted museum planks,
spare me a thought in nickel-pence reflection,
like Clyde dockmen's caps to the Sea of Japan.
When it was in the frigid farmhouse air,
the brindle bindings from ticking bluebirds,
I'll remind of thrushing greenery, the rolling
hills where once the causeway giants roamed.
Where crossroads clash in diamond angles,
the sparkle of last America's roadhouses,
you'll find the features of some charming gentleman
in soapy wash and beer glass tithes.
Where train tracks collude in appointed grace's
ground, staking my name in drawing quarters,
we'll draw figures upon the clear blue of Arctic skies,
but, remember, remember, of names and silver tongues.