Keepsake

Green, green, the grass in the paddock.
Roan, roan, round runs the foal.

Wandlimbed and nimble,
sniffing the morning,
trotting and loping,
around runs the foal.

Dusk in the meadow:
lady’s-smock glimmers;
breath just beginning,
the night-scented stock.

Bulk in the belfry:
owl is staring.
White and five-witted,
he stares at the night.

Drums in the distance,
striving and shouting,
fire and clamour,
and clouds like the pine.

Ashes and knotgrass,
crater and rubble;
whirling, alighting,
a murder of crows.

Green, green, the grass in the paddock.
Roan, roan, round runs the foal.