Pull down the dark
And tuck it gentle over the old men’s dreams,
Quiet as turning feathers drifted
On the bone-thin beds of grief.
Tumble the barn owls, cloaked,
From the haunted trees,
Whistling school-boys skimming
The smooth, smooth bannisters of night.
Scatter the stars
Arched over hearts that throb, that sing
And hope to die, dear joy! of love.
Around the children
Fold the cottage walls, old
And safe as dominoes.
Gather the shadows,
Crush the wind like wine to the lips;
The clouds, spin them back with a bubble of laughter;
Silver the stones with a goblet moon
And drink this village night.
(November,
1977)
