where she will though the night is dark. I hear a fox bark.
Where she will
is the trackless field, silent and full of eyes,
though the night is dark.
Warm blood pulses, the tread of silent paws,
I hear a fox bark.
Cat pays no heed, the arc of the house hers.
after the rain has doused the sun
like raindrops dimple the celestial puddle.
Painting Edvard Munch.
Sometimes night comforts
with its dark sheltering wing and only pale stars for light. Forgetfulness murmurs a gentle lullaby and sleep.
About this house,
night folds dark wings, rough-feathered, cold, and through the window glass, a single star, raven-eye, blinks. Frost crisps, and I cannot tell if we are kin or prey.
In the hanging trees, the shrivel-fruit are dark
as no-moon and bitter as sloes, black the shadows, pinched, a dead hand’s grip.
Through the leaf-rustle I wade
though briar’s cruel canes bar the way, fox tracks too low, too narrow for me to pass,
and the air moves above my head
in feathered waves of startled pigeons, clattering from their roost.
They tell me I will find you on the bald hill,
rabbit-cropped turf, dark beneath the no-moon, where the owls sing to lure the stars.
They tell me I may not like what I find,
but still I take the cold path, no choice but to follow, though your only sweetness be lilies.
Waiting for the moon
I’ll stand and wait for moonrise,
the rising of the light, the silvering of meadows, the darkening of night, to hear the owl song echoing among the spindle trees, to hear the owl song echoing, his soft voice in the breeze.
When veils of rain have fallen
into the arms of night, I’ll stand and wait for moonrise, the growing of the light and listen for the owl’s song among the darkling trees, among the silver branches, stirred by a silver breeze.
And will you wait here with me
while silver laps the hedge, a tide of misty moonlight is a sea where feathers fledge? Our fingers joined like heartbeats, the beating of pale wings plays in silver fluting moonlight such songs as the night bird sings.
Night is here again,
dark as ever, dark as Hades and full of rain.
The light returns tomorrow
so they say, the ones who know, who measure the turning of the earth through standing stones
and the stories coursing in their blood
of death and birth, and how the sunrise hits a smooth stone in a chamber set into a hill.
Night is here again.
That’s all I know.
at the end of the day
we can only say the day is ended
the sun has set
and in the whispering of the leaves
is the promise of tomorrow
tomorrow begins with the dark
and the moon’s course across the sky
the patterings and scufflings among the grasses
the hunting owls
and the dropping dew
dew prefigures frost
the silver veiling of the earth
paling of the green
and trembling tree shadows
to the colour of moonlight
the meadow is awash
and the day has ended in the night ocean
I sail sunwards
clutching my promise of tomorrow
all day long the thrushes sing
and in the night the owls
play ghost with one another
among the swaying trees
beneath the cold stars winking
their feathery tremolo rolls
and bright-eyed mice count frightened
heartbeats hard as sunflower seeds
among damp night stalks trembling
foxes walk and badgers growl
while I listen to the moonlight-
darkened voices of the wild
breathe the musky scent of tree bark
and the rolling dewy grasses
where they walk and we would follow
ghosts all in the dusky night
A poem I wrote today and have finished up for the
Tonight it seems as though the sky,
the heavy drapery diamond-stitched,
waveless, waterless ocean where ice
is formed and falls in flakes
of chiselled chaff, is blue as day,
the light turned off and curtains drawn.
The light turned off and curtains drawn,
purblind we cower beneath
the trembling shadow-wings
of its monumental dark majesty.