The Exiles

What siren zooming is sounding our coming 
Up frozen fjord forging from freedom 
                      What shepherd's call
                      When stranded on hill, 
                      With broken axle
                      On track to exile?

With labelled luggage we alight at last 
Joining joking at the junction on the moor 
                      With practised smile
                      And harmless tale
                      Advance to meet
                      Each new recruit.

Expert from uplands, always in oilskins, 
Recliner from library, laying down law, 
                      Owner from shire,
                      All meet on this shore
                      Facing each prick 
                      With ginger pluck.

Our rooms are ready, the register signed, 
There is time to take a turn before dark, 
                      See the blistering paint
                      On the scorching front, 
                      Or icicles sombre
                      On pierhead timber.

To climb the cliff path to the coastguard's point 
Past the derelict dock deserted by rats,
                      Look from concrete sill
                      Of fort for sale
                      To the bathers' rocks,
                      The lovers' ricks.

Our boots will be brushed, our bolsters pummelled, 
Cupboards are cleared for keeping our clothes. 
                      Here we shall live
                      And somehow love
                      Though we only master 
                      The sad posture.

Picnics are promised and planned for July 
To the wood with the waterfall, walks to find, 
                      Traces of birds,
                      A mole, a rivet,
                      In factory yards
                      Marked strictly private.

There will be skating and curling at Christmas—indoors 
Charades and ragging; then riders pass
                      Some afternoons
                      In snowy lanes
                      Shut in by wires, 
                      Surplus from wars.

In Spring we shall spade the soil on the border 
For blooming of bulbs; we shall bow in Autumn 
                      When trees make passes,
                      As high gale pushes,
                      And bewildered leaves 
                      Fall on our lives.

Watching through windows the wastes of evening, 
The flare of foundries at fall of the year, 
                      The slight despair
                      At what we are, 
                      The marginal grief 
                      Is source of life.

In groups forgetting the gun in the drawer 
Need pray for no pardon, are proud till recalled 
                      By music on water
                      To lack of stature, 
                      Saying Alas
                      To less and less.

Till holding our hats in our hands for talking, 
Or striding down streets for something to see, 
                      Gas-light in shops,
                      The fate of ships 
                      And the tide-wind
                      Touch the old wound.

Till the town is ten and the time is London 
And nerves grow numb between north and south 
                      Hear last in corner
                      The pffwungg of burner 
                      Accepting dearth,
                      The shadow of death.