Is it peace the sky breathes blue
with buzzard voice?
I listen to the falling words,
you you you.
Day makes one picture green with trees,
night another from cloud-smoke and moonlight,
and both are born from the same dance,
the vast winged and petalled night,
the soft-furred day.
The universe is made of salt and scent,
song and sorrow,
colour and the monochromes of twilight,
the hot red of blood,
ghost white of bone
and in our embrace the whole melts
and merges into a waking morning,
brilliant as stars,
enduring as hearts unconsumed by fire.