February 21st, 2012


12.51 22/2/11

I hadn't previously heard this piece which was read out at the civic memorial service, but it's fitting, and best of all, remains unchanged by the convulsions of the last year and a half.

The City from the Hills

by Arnold Wall

There lies our city folded in the mist,
Like a great meadow in an early morn
Flinging her spears of grass up through white films,
Each with its thousand thousand-tinted globes.

Above us such an air as poets dream,
The clean and vast wing-winnowed clime of Heaven.

Each of her streets is closed with shining Alps,
Like Heaven at the end of long plain lives.