Spread on the roadway, With open-blown jackets, Like black, soaring pinions, They swoop down the hillside, The Cyclists. Seeming dark-plumaged Birds, after carrion, Careening and circling, Over the dying Of England. She lies with her bosom Beneath them, no longer The Dominant Mother, The Virile-but rotting Before time. The smell of her, tainted, Has bitten their nostrils. Exultant they hover, And shadow the sun with Foreboding. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HUGH SELWYN MAUBERLEY: 13. ENVOI, 1919 by EZRA POUND VALENTINES TO MY MOTHER: 1885 by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI THE OLD SCHOOL HOUSE by ALEXANDER ANDERSON FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE by EDWIN ARNOLD EMBLEMS OF LOVE: 42. AUGMENTED BY FAVOURABLE BLASTS by PHILIP AYRES |