It is the very egg of long nights:
Still and black, a light rain falling.
The cats peer silent from windows,
The long fire slowly fades and whispers.
In the garden there will be slugs,
Stately, weaving their own fine galactic trails.
Beyond, in the meadows, glimmering sheep
Will nonchalantly chew, nod and say grace,
Nod and say grace.
There will be owls and a scurry of mice.
And there will be dreams sliding
Between the in and the out of breath,
A tower of worlds, made and unmade,
A cascade of tomorrows in dark and light.
For most, (but never for all),
There will be a slow dawn.
A new wind from the hills,
A resumption: nets and hooks set
Eager to catch time, labelled, minuted,
Used, misused, wasted.
But not now,
Not in this one vessel of darkness:
One long curve holding curved void.
Not distinguished are the living or the dead.
All are quiet ghosts
Tasting the certain past
And this turning, rolling, cooling night air.