page 59

Ward 1.

N.W. Bilbrough

Here they lie, the dregs and the results.
Wisps of humanity like newspaper huddled
In the corner of the square where a jerk of wind
Will cause a scrap to saunter across
The puddles and settle vaguely, uncertainly.

Bodies which have been too well-handled,
In public use too long, now only second grade,
Only for the lower-income groups.
Spread out carelessly in beds in
The auction room for the rejects, the not-wanted.

Parodies of people. The jokes of
A macabre artist - a ghoul who
paints human understatements,
A creator who specialises in club-feet,
Incontinence and mental decay.

Thrown out in lines, living and
Half-living in uneasy, spasmodic silence.
A twilight of sound where faint
Organic rustling rises and falls
Like the heave of a shell to the ear.

Here death is a break in the
Restless, dry images which dance
And cry across the screen of the mind.
A stop to the insistent dripping
From the tap of pain.

Here they lie, exhausted in
The last act. Soon the curtain will
Fall and there will be no encore.
The audience will rise and forget
And throw away their programmes.