Scan
As when some steepling wave
seems arrested, or cumuli
draw close, couple and configure,
we glimpse this dream made flesh,
half-smiling, left hand raised.
And each of us comes face to face
with innocence, manifest,
ineffable unearthly bliss
before we compromise it.
Before the Breaking Hour
Love-knot, dovetail, harvest bow:
they’ve waited all their lives for you
and wish you everything they want.
Their sit-at-home, their rope-dancer,
their hyphen and fuse and chord:
now, before the breaking hour,
vital image, simplifying word.
Cradle
Not woven from purple rushes
and, daubed with slime and pitch,
left to bob among flags.
Not lined with watercolour silks
– gifts of the Good Fairies.
Nothing less than this soft rain so still through the watches,
each sweet drop giving voice
to earth and grass, leaf, roof,
pane, and yes, whatsoever is.