The night forces stalk the darkened gardens.
But the moon is high enough
To show its face
To the distant below.
Like ancient doors, trees crack and creak.
They swing from ground to sky; from sky to ground.
All is alive to a wind
That blasts the shutters of the house
And the shutters in the head.
It tries so hard to enter: to despoil the light.
To sow the dark to a deeper gloom.
No comments:
Post a Comment