MORNING by morning I look up at the twin towers, And the long tunnel of glass and iron between. When I was small I thought of heaven as glass, With bands playing all day, all hours, And amber sands disparted over the sheen: Above, a roof of glass, Without, cloud, sky and grass. "Parish of Lambeth," then, holds all of heaven, Norwood trees are the trees Of Judas, Absalom and Eve. Iron-voiced cars down the steep hill Groan with the damned that heave Headlong to suburbs of the south. But heaven is empty now, the bands Play to forlorn long aisles; St. Peter nods at stiff turnstiles; My steps upon the sands Wake noises that might shatter the glass: And all that glittering tunnel would fall, And the twin towers so tall, If I but clapped my hands. |