Cryptic

Cryptic

By Richard Mather

The scent of a foreign newspaper in the morning:

New ink on old investments and trades.

While down in Berlin, the autobus returns to the depot.

The driver wraps himself in a scene of noise and oil.

The last of the rain is falling in spores, another plague.

The bailiff, off duty, knows that trees take time.

No ordinary articles in the universe's inventory.

Get rid of more, of it all, he says. This is a career,

Not a hobby. Have a snack, an apple, it's a hard fruit.

No use in thinking. Language speaks for itself.

Liverpool is dizzy now. The heights are great 

Where the birds go. The broadcast is over: cryptic

And a snare for lumpy minds without exercise.

In Moscow, Ukraine reels. A family affair, horrid as usual.

The boss boasts a weapon four hundred miles long.

For a contest to be successful, no ordinary tool will do.

Sit up, stand up, be a man who sees regularly.

You can't die out when the world is hot and unpeeled.