In the Isle of Dogs / John Davidson

In the Isle of Dogs
While the water-wagon's ringing showers Sweetened the dust with a woodland smell, " Past noon, past noon, two sultry hours," Drowsily fell From the schoolhouse clock In the Isle of Dogs by Millwall Dock.

Mirrored in shadowy windows draped With ragged net or half-drawn blind Bowsprits, masts, exactly shaped To woo or fight the wind, Like monitors of guilt By strength and beauty sent, Disgraced the shameful houses built To furnish rent.

From the pavements and the roofs In shimmering volumes wound The wrinkled heat ; Distant hammers, wheels and hoofs, A turbulent pulse of sound, Southward obscurely beat, The only utterance of the afternoon. Till on a sudden in the silent street An organ-man drew up and ground The Old Hundredth tune.

Forthwith the pillar of cloud that hides the past Burst into flame. Whose alchemy transmuted house and mast, Street, dockyard, pier and pile: By magic sound the Isle of Dogs became A northern isle — A green isle like a beryl set In a wine-coloured sea, Shadowed by mountains where a river met The ocean's arm extended royally.

There also in the evening on the shore An old man ground the Old Hundredth tune, An old enchanter steeped in human lore, Sad-eyed, with whitening beard, and visage lank: Not since and not before, Under the sunset or the mellowing moon, Has any hand of man's conveyed Such meaning in the turning of a crank.

Sometimes he played As if his box had been An organ in an abbey richly lit; For when the dark invaded day's demesne, And the sun set in crimson and in gold; When idlers swarmed upon the esplanade, And a late steamer wheeling towards the quay Struck founts of silver from the darkling sea, The solemn tune arose and shook and rolled Above the throng, Above the hum and tramp and bravely knit All hearts in common memories of song.

Sometimes he played at speed ; Then the Old Hundredth like a devil's mass Instinct with evil thought and evil deed, Rang out in anguish and remorse. Alas! That men must knov/ both Heaven and Hell! Sometimes the melody Sang with the murmuring surge; And with the winds would tell Of peaceful graves and of the passing bell. Sometimes it pealed across the bay A high triumphal dirge, A dirge For the departing undefeated day.

A noble tune, a high becoming mate Of the capped mountains and the deep broad firth; A simple tune and great, The fittest utterance of the voice of earth.