Small talk

I

Upon the noon Cassandra died

The Harpy preened itself outside.

Bank holiday put forth its glamour,

And in the wayside station's clamour

We found the cafe at the rear,

And sat and drank our Pilsener beer.

Words smeared upon our wooden faces

Now paint them into queer grimaces;

The crackling greeneries that spirt

Like firworks, mock our souls inert,

And we seem feathered like a bird

Among the shadows scarcely heard.

Beneath her shade-ribbed

switchback mane

The harpy, breasted like a train,

Was haggling with a farmer's wife;

"Fresh harpy's eggs, no trace of life."

Miss Sitwell, cross and white as chalk,

Was indisposed for the small talk;

Since, peering through a shadowed door,

She saw Cassandra on the floor.

II

Upon the noon

Cassandra died,

Harpy soon

Screeched outside.

Gardener Jupp,

In his shed.

Counted wooden

Carrots red.

Black shades pass,

Dead-stiff there,

On green baize grass -

Drink his beer.

Bumpkin turnip,

Mask limp-locked,

White sun frights

The gardener shocked.

Harpy creaked

Her limbs again:

I think, she squeaked,

It's going to rain!"