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You have been very quiet lately, Candia, Brassie remarked.  It’s not

like you.

Well, I thought I’d let everyone catch up with my outpourings. I

did get somewhat carried away at the time of The Referendum.

Here’s an old poem to stave off your withdrawal symptoms:

The Angel of the North

Benediction, or annunciation?

A call to build a New Jerusalem

amid these grim industrial wastelands?

A pinhead would not hold many of these.

This is no iridescent dragonfly,

but a harbinger, whose rusty steel frame

and non-encompassing bi-plane wingspan

strikes Virgin train travellers as awesome;

and overwhelms drivers on the A1.

Idling engines don’t speak Magnificats.

 

He wouldn’t grace a furnace, or lions’ den-.

feet grounded in Vulcan collieries.

He prevents no patriarch at knifepoint

and has no nimbus seal of immanence.

No Moebius strip with a Gothick script

in Gutenberg Germanic Latin type

streams from his non-existent mouth,

to say, Behold, I bring you glad tidings,

or, Even so shall it be unto you.

 

From brass heavens he signifies nothing:

no Logos for a world of trite logos.

This is for Thomases -his tangible

body, too solid to admit fingers.

His design brief has a fall prevention

factor, but proud buffetings brought to Earth

once shimmering forms who’d vaunted aloud;

now racked in deep despair.  And fall they did.

What is his pronouncement over estates

whose lintels bear not a smear of lamb’s blood?

Perhaps he is nothing to those who drive by,

or who trusted in their own welded ships.

Maybe he’s a monument to Nothing

and, though fatigue may erode him one day,

somehow he commands and is riveting.

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