The wind is spent, the dust is down,
The light is playing tricks,
It filters in, fades, reappears
On the tar of platform six, where
The schoolboys are disgorged,
Attached like leeches to their cause,
Splitting hairs and splitting heads,
Home and hosed to early beds,
Lemmings diving in the sea
Line up blindfolded by the wall.
“That is not what we meant at all”
Say mother and father, watching us slip
In their vice-like grip.
Through the tattered world, the stink
Punched full of holes, the useless salty water
Stings, taunting us to drink.