I live a November life
where I run like a train
deeper and deeper
through the tunnels,
over wind-swept bridges,
through the sedentary, childless
villages of the old from where I am now
in the land of mine enemies
where hostile witnesses abound,
skilled at shaking fists, digging up dirt,
being respectably contemptible.

Such terrible beauty in these lands of the rich:
wizened faces study bank statements
gather share certificates, land deeds,
squirrel away cash in ledgers, in safes;
count untaxed entitlements of all manner and conditions
whilst drooling over the babies of the feckless
the undeserving poor, people of a lesser vintage,
in blatantly false displays of camaraderie,
or even of common decency, 
whilst secretly whistling a christian song.