The Bridge

When Wordsworth stood upon that bridge most fair,
And wondered if some gloomy passer-by
Could be so dim that London’s majesty
Would never touch his dullness, unaware,

The poet prophesied the world’s despair
That here beneath a once and future sky,
In Moloch’s name the innocent would die
Their cries to fill the crisp and smokeless air;

That there would be no Christian left to weep
The dead whose countrymen with tears befill
The waters of the gently flowing deep.

Sad England, void of intellect and will,
That harbors in its communistic sleep
A godless horde that relishes the kill!


© Joseph Charles MacKenzie. All Rights Reserved.

By | 2017-10-29T21:31:53+00:00 July 13th, 2017|Categories: Poem|0 Comments

About the Author:

I am a traditional lyric poet, First Place winner of the Scottish International Poetry Competition (Long Poem Section). My poetry has appeared in The New York Times, The Scotsman (Edinburgh), The Independent (London), US News and World Report, Google News, and many other outlets. I write primarily for the Society of Classical Poets (New York).

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