ночные стихи (англ.)

Alan Shaw

Intruders

Straighter than the Roman Road,
With its imperious modern air
Runs the divided thoroughfare.
The grassy median, newly mowed,
Is bare of any legionnaire.

The haulers push on with their load,
And in the distance disappear.
A placid power seems to steer
Each citizen’s mobile abode,
Where none hears what the others hear.

But shattering their pleasant code,
Above the drone they hear a cheer;
Blown beards beside the windows leer:
Horned helmets, chains, lewd patches sewed
To greasy leather, they are here.

A car swerves as the leaders goad
Their roaring mounts to cross too near,
And screaming off in higher gear,
They leave a trail of traffic slowed,
Scared faces, windshields splashed with beer.