Seated. Warm. Propping up my latest book; the dark

pulls me from beyond the cottage window

into the cool awe of a perfect starnight

a gift to me as I walk across the damp lawn and, turning

look over the old stone wall

to the fields across the valley and up to the hills

and the arcing rim of the night

 

Standing. Chilled. Leaning on my garden wall; the stars

call me from their cloud misted glimmerings

as the log fire glows faint in the darkened lounge

a call to me as I pass the window to the gate, turning

away from the house and sheds

to the little sloping field that leads down to the wood

and the gate that leads to the night

 

Walking. Blind. Climbing o'er the sagging gate; the night               

sucks me from the calm of my little home

into the damp still beneath the heft of trees

a roof for me as I tramp over fallen mast and, turning

look up through the leafless hedge

to the slope to the wall to the garden the cottage

and chimney sparks rise to the night