Night and Day
Oh Forest Wood
You block the sun
And now the time
For play is done.
The mushroomed meadow, the needled rug
Lie in silence
The worm, the root, the beaded dew
Wait in darkness.
So quickly comes the dusk,
The orange muddled night break,
Privileged witness to the last lonely fluting
Of the hermit thrush, the infants call.
No bird speaks in the cold night
Yet in the lovers clasps and dreams
There is a pleasure
Not unlike when he sings.
A pleasure greater still
Is the dawn unframed
That cracks the void of awful black
To free the patient day restrained.
If there was one bullet
In that gun that you run waving
Past the crowded archway
Outside the last museum’s
Grey solid walls
Housing the creations
Of dead men
In hollow corridors
Could you muster?
Or with your weak and sterile body
Would you hold the cold metallic chamber
And watch the unspent powder
Fall down into the dust?