Twilight, and the owls call,
from the hedge a hare darts,
takes to the lane, white scut jaunty.
Beneath the trees,
bat-fluttering night has fallen,
Venus, Jupiter and Mars
aligned in the blue, the outliers,
while behind, in the turquoise glow,
the stars wait,
and I wait,
for the curtain to rise, the curtain to fall,
spangled and old as time.
Will the night still cast its glitter on these fields
when the hare has gone and the owls are silent,
and the concrete sea has tamed this rebellious corner,
when nothing stirs in the grass so bare,
flowerless and insect-free,
and neatly trimmed as polished nails?
Were I a star,
I would turn my face away