[By Loch Ness]
[/Dom Moraes, 1938-2004]

My friend the poet fixes his blue eyes
On the grey lake in which the frail rain falls,
He cannot think why monsters do not rise,
Roaring in joy, that it’s he that calls.
Miracles do not happen every day,
I have informed him, hoping it was true:
But his blue eyes stayed fixed upon the grey
Lake, and he only answered that they do.

Now at the junction for the south, nearby,
The mauve industrialists invade the train
My friend the poet left early today.

Their haunches shake: their gluey mouthes complain.
They think him mad for standing in the rain
Though he believes in monsters less than they.