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108 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1989
Looking towards Greenwich,
Towards that great confluence of sky and river,
Thames and Tower,
On misty mornings when Westminster rises
In this pearl-gray hour;
Had you been strolling on the Embankment then,
You would not have looked up towards Scotland Yard,
Its windows silvering in the sun,
And thought: Murder is abroad.
No, you would not have known
The blind man coming towards you in these waves
Of Londoners, his white stick tapping
The ground like a divining rod, is looking
Over his shoulder at you.
Was it Bygraves?
Mystery. It's all the same
Questions without end or aim.
What will lead us to the dead?
Footprints in the flower bed.
What appeals were made too late?
Sift the ashes in the grate.
What was fatal in this mug?
Pick the fragments from the rug.
What has tolled the final knell?
Find the sexton and the bell.
What heart has become too fond?
Cast the net across the pond.
What act was misunderstood?
Take the footpath to the wood.
What mind has succumbed to grief?
Search the rocks beneath the cliff.
What was buried in the sand?
Shine the lantern down the strand.
Clues that lie as scattered as
The blown leaves across our paths.
Sinlence, speak. Wind, unwind.
Everything will be explained.
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