RITUAL MURDER IN HYDE PARK The sun purrs light of sweetest gall and he kneels at our feet: that greatest looking-glass of all, whiffling the flow into our words as swiftly the blows fall, flashes from a net of swords... Unblessed the quick, the gloomy flood from his submissive breast, that fleeting bliss of lung and blood, into the flickering gold and silver yield of the hawthorn and the grass, the frolic green that clothes the field where, fleeing the sword-edge, filling the cleft his bewildered ghost untwins with swift outflowing waft unweft: following the quick sniffle of a fear and the wet squeak of gore that frets the muffle of the shrinking ear... now drifting free beyond belief we hear him and for ever in the faintest shuffle of a fallen leaf.(In order to elucidate the “action” the sub-title MORRIS SWORD DANCE should be added.)
(1967)