by Garry Lyle
Let them glide bravely while the night-time lingers
Boys and girls dancing down the blue-lit room.
Let them not see the pale, destroying fingers
That hover overhead to write their doom.
Let them walk slowly down late winter gardens
Wet with fresh dew, and wattle-garlanded,
Let them kiss quickly, ere soft starlight hardens
Over smashed streets where lie the young, young dead.
Death rides unchallenged down this August sky,
O God……. and they shall die, and they shall die.
Garry Lyle, August, 1939.