The estival sun has fallen East,
well past the country, bird and beast,
through thyme, the trees and Myrtle
stands, where wetter lands keep fertile
seeds for better tides and time.

Again, the season sets to burn
where whippoorwill and willow turn
against the Northern wind and cloud
while all about them clamours, loud,
beneath the blue-black sky.

The whimbrels call, the coyotes cry,
toward the moon, that rocky eye
hung low across the harvest, hearth,
above the star strewn tundra.

And though the songbirds do not sing
long having left on wing and wing,
along the lane, then through the soul
then up, up high into the bowl,
that silver space so full of thirst,
where planets crawl and comets burst
there is a song, a strange delight,
when magic whispers wild at night.

New dawns will come beyond the thunder,
in spite of err, in spite of blunder,
beyond autumnal, blue.

And there beneath the green reeds sleeping
all that thrives within the keeping
dreams through the dark of the spring.