Sleepless, by the windowpane I stare –
black aeroplanes disturb the air.
The ticking moon glares down aghast.
The seven branched tree is bare.
Oh how much like Europe’s gothic Past!
This scene my nightmare’s metaphrast:
glow of the radioactive worm,
the preterites of the Blast.
Unreal? East and West fat Neros yearn
for other fiddled Romes to burn;
and so dogma cancels dogma
and heretics in their turn.
By my wife now, I lie quiet as a
thought of how moon and stars might blur,
and miles of smoke squirm overhead
rising to Man’s arbiter;
the grey skin shrivelling from the head,
our two skulls in the double bed,
leukaemia in the soul of all
flowing through the blood instead.
‘No,’ I shout, as by her side I sprawl,
‘No.’ again, as I head my small,
dear daughter whimper in her cot,
and across the darkness call.
by Dannie Abse
from Tenants of the House (1957)
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