Lost Star

Starting from the window, the bars

And the three brick walls, the cherry tree

In the centre of the yard, most of its leaves

Lying light as feathers beneath, but some

Still clinging by twos and threes —

Not enough to shield the planet

Hanging there like a fruit

But further away than it seems —

Can I really see you swinging

Around me now in a circle

Whose radius is longer than the arms of any known clock?

The lonely pilot guides

The lost star, its passengers the crowd

Of innocents exiled in winter.

Sometimes, letting the vessel drift

Into danger, he pauses

To feed them at his miraculous breast.

Distant as the spirit imprisoned

In a bronze vase buried in shingle

At the clean edge of the sea,

Floating like instantaneous foam or an island,

Sealed off like a womb,

Here where I sit so still

I can see the milk in my glass is tidal

Inclining towards you across the dangerous sky.