Alan Turing (1912-1954)

Truth is hard to find – the years ahead, the years behind,

Yet find it we do – in snatches – on days that go by:

On days when nothing is decided, on throw-away days such as these

Farmyard smells, christmas bells, and all the frumpery of lawns.

 

Children connect you to the truth: tooth faeries’

Dreams, goblin times, gobeen men,

Caught loving you again

In all  the worlds without end

That now elude us

Metaphors are not fit to give it shape

Neither are the big words

That frightened you so.

 

Thee whole edifice

crumbles

In all its contrary implications

In all its disgraces

In all its lies denied...