'Too Many Poets'

Key to authors' pseudonyms

In this place of fading grace, the floorboards creaking time.
The distance that belies your face, a joke without a rhyme.
I didn’t know the time had come, for me to leave and you to run
Then all at once the walls collapse, the cupboard screams, the carpet snaps.

Because this place is unseen, I know that we must leave.
There is no time for talking nor is it time to grieve.

Each harbour light was stilled by night, the sirens’ songs unheard.
The distance that connects our fate, a soured, aching tome.
Deep echoes from the churchyard, keep time in stately fours.
The passing of the mockingbird, reminds me what it’s for.

Because this place is unseen, I know that we must leave.
There is no time for talking nor is it time to grieve.

Confusion scrapes its name upon the signpost that’s unsigned.
The mortar of the ancient church is rotting and unkind.
As night unfolds its cloak of holes, the sewers clog, the pores unclose.
There is not time for making haste, the floorboards creak, the fall from grace.

Because this place is dying, I know that we must leave.
There is no time for talking nor is it time to grieve.

Procol Harum concerts in 2001: index page

Manchester: Palers' Convention

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