Sure as nightfall, finer
Than any drizzle, their tweaks of light
Are brief, occulting – so little
You’d think they must be splinters
Of a single idea.
Out in the dusk, they almost
Are beyond the limit of what is possible
For a man or a god to invent –
Are never quite what they were
And outflank order.
The grass is theirs, the woodpile,
The hedgerow, all the darkening air –
Even if you close your eyes
They are there, navigating in silence
To the sill of your dream
Lawrence Sail
The Spectator 24 October 1992
