The Cyclists
Spread on the roadway,With open-blown jackets,Like black, soaring pinions,They swoop down the hillside,The Cyclists.
Seeming dark-plumagedBirds, after carrion,Careening and circling,Over the dyingOf England.
She lies with her bosomBeneath them, no longerThe Dominant Mother,The Virile—but rottingBefore time.
The smell of her, tainted,Has bitten their nostrils.Exultant they hover,And shadow the sun withForeboding.