By day a herd, but a river
by dark, a breath or clean shirt
drifting, and all we see is the night-spun
linen, the pale flick of sleeves.
At noon they are soft coats and tall
ears and tails, the dog-scent of salt and hide,
at night they are spindles and flax, eyes
like lake-silt, windy legs raining.
I know how darkness touches
us, makes new or ancient or wild.
I left the biscuit of porchlight;
I dissolved in a crescent of sable
grasses, and does thrilled away,
a swanwing.
No comments:
Post a Comment