It’s a room hung with words   That’s its form
A cave in the mind  replete with ochre
images of man and woman   of wild
beasts etched on bony walls    A space in time
recorded for all time  A hunter’s tale
told to all who gather round the flame that
flickers in the fading light   Beauty and
truth where silence sleeps
                             and the moon’s face looms
large   and songs of innocence have been heard
and dance has had its turn  Nothing lives for-
ever   though nothing truly dies  How strange
that ev’ry loving breath denied the ache
of art must wither as it were upon
the vine  Crystal tears
                                    on the Western Front

John Lyons