Windows wide upon the whirring world
the curtain stirs
between the shadow-mouths of furniture
and shifting trees, between the brink of sleep
and forest-realms of badgers, foxes, owls;
the lapsing, rising breeze
deflects the nightjar, holds
one blackbird calling
in the deep wood; is the moon
vast, round, bronze beyond the maybug’s
fumbling? The distant line of downs
still visible from Great Oaks Wood?
peterdavey2 