In Memory Of Col Charles Young

Along the shore the tall thin grass,

That fringes that dark river,

While sinuously soft feet

Beings to bleed and quiver.

The great dark voice breaks with a

Across the womb of night;

Above your grave, the tom-toms

And the hills are weird with light.

The great dark beast is like a

Drained bitter by the sky,

And all the honeyed lies they

Come there to thirst and die.

No lie is strong enough to

The roots that work below,

From your rich dust and slaughtered willA tree with tongues shall grow.