Fickle Sun (II) The Hour Is Thin

The hour is thin
Trafalgar Square is calm
birds and cold black dark
the final famine of a wicked sun
and the web that died yesterday
I was a hard-copy version
I turned my eyes directly to hate
then, the hammer of toil
tired with what the world has yet brought forth
with the women waving at war
and the news that war is faith
filled with tremendous cheering
leaping and night-rings
ding dang and gongs
who did not feel any purpose?

The phoenix broods, serene, above the moment
you are fighting for, I wonder what destiny
we waste-away our hours and darken
beneath the velvet of a strong optimism
Britain's most fateful hour is spun
copy this point on a gong
choirs, like bells, like a national truce
and the new sun, where the air is something new
men dream of a swell so high
endeavour to get through the lies and the bees
to find something that historians can rake out of the drums
and all that colour and savagery
boom, the dark
and the web that died yesterday

The phoenix broods, serene, above the tower of time
not enough boats
he admitted without shame
that he had entered into the dreams of the named addressee
in the velvet of war
well, lad, you've taken my heart away
I shall miss the grin of the cold, black sea
before ever there was writing, they were taking up stones to hurl at last stroke
but nobody looked back
there were soldiers, there was a cradle

The universe is required
please notify the sun