There’s an end to everything:
Birds in the trees, music,
Plangent and deep,
Tempests flaring in the mind of man
Foreshadowing that terrible realisation
That you too follow this same cliff path
On nights of luminosity and in the darkness
Of day. When mother, father, lover, child
Have swooned towards the moon in triumph
Or despair, or when those steps we climbed
in childhood into the loneliness of dream
creak and creak again like the echoes of a scream.
And nothing is as nothing seems
And all retains the insubstantiality of dream.