I come across this poem today, which I find I still like, though two or three months have passed since I wrote it; and because I like it, I thought I would post it here as one of my three daily observations.
Thinking about Karl Marx
Bees, in glass cells make curious honey,
Blow spume and bubbles from what's bought and sold.
Drone swarming numbers as a litany,
Play dominoes with bars of gold.
How should we know what the animal is
That under a blanket writhes and rolls
Across the globe? What is its business?
Has it head and heart, arms, legs, genitals?
The surface heaves like a mountain range
Pushed by tectonic plates. "What's there for us?"
Say both rich and poor at the hope exchange.
Every bead has flown from the abacus.
Too big for comfort is the monstrous head
On the tomb in Highgate cemetery
Among the equal and uncaring dead.
Springs, coiled tight, still struggle to be free.
In line astern on the pavement, too narrow for all of them, three fresh young mums, leaning into push chairs, conduct their babies up Mount Sion, resonating with energy as they pass our house.