NEIL POWELL

A death

21

The day recedes. Blood floods across the plain. There suddenly is nothing left to say, Nothing to do but turn around again. You should have known that it would end this way.

Now what you could not do is done at last - 'Achilles hath the mighty Hector slain' - And what you could not be is in the dust Behind your horse. Your triumph is in vain:

A hero for a corpse is poor exchange On either side, and this especially, Of all beautiful losers. And that's strange: For he now is what you feel you should be, As legend aystallises from his past. You watch the clinging failure of your schemes: You drove a bargain too hard and too fast, And sheltered kids grow up to have bad dreams.