Commuter Train to London


The writing on these walls

Is like the beating of drums

In the jungle night.

The old white hunter

Is gripped with the fear of the hunt.

Is it just a harmless ritual

Of purely religious significance

Or are they gathering

In feverish councils of war

Dancing and chanting

And beating the ground

With their spears?

See the white man fidget on the 8.15

And frown at every bridge that passes

Fearful of the tufted arrow

And the poisoned dart.



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