DUST No movement but will make it's havocIn the moted air. Have you watched the stir Of dust behind you on the stair, the hassockYields its quota to your prayer? In putting on or off of linen fair, of stomachers,Y-fronts or buskins, must be dustFull-fashioned as the particles which roseAnd wreathed young Helen's hair, TelmachusThe fabled Greek, the musk of JudasClinging to the pale Christ's cheek. At once remotest ancestor and yetOur last posterity, inert, inanimate,Forever mobile, inarticulate: the dust'sA contract in the scheme of things, a debtOutstanding to be paid in kind. Of dust, the stuff of stars and death,A metaphor outworn by priests,Ignored by poets drawing breathOr something cataclysmic in the wayOf simile, there is nothing new to say. There was nothing new to say of dustUntil all on a summer's dayHiroshima rose up, and a dustMost radiantly new fell outAnd came to stay. Gabriel Fielding- 1955