a blanket drawn over
the singing thicket,
reeling off the day, the warbler
gets a last word and hush.
Wind whispers in the rushes
The city behind
is most happily
ablaze
The soft talk of boatmen
stowed in long-rooms
on lamplit windows
silhouettes draw together
until dark soaks the page.
Water babbles on the hull
We crunch on
a path glowing
in moonlight
A train unzips along a ridge,
slows as it weaves through
wirey hawthorn, blackens,
on the short journey
into the red blast.
Out from under
a rag of cloud
the first star winks
