Smoke-haired evening, wide and
warm, with day-fire cheeks,
rocks against the night;
patiently she gathers in the
tousled and the tired,
smiles to see day’s foolish cares
clamber in her lap,
to fall asleep against grey serge
and safety pins.
As evening draws far memories
through quiet fingers,
knits them up in shawls of love,
outside the endless night waits,
breathes darkly against the glass.
Inside, no sound but the
heart-stop tick of the clock,
the whispered movement of the
settling ash,
dying to dust,
evening
rocking...
Lights out.
She’s gone,
but going set a nursery guard
between the fires and the dark,
shaking the shadow-man from the
stairs with “Nanny’s here”...
(November,
1987)
