This Way to the Tomb: I. Evening

The red fox, the sun, tears the throat of the evening; makes the light of the day bleed into the ocean.

The laced grace of gulls lift up from the corn fields; fly across the sunset, scarlet their silhouette.

The old owl, the moon, drifts from its loose thatch of clouds, throws an ivory glance on an enamelled sea.

Eyes of mice, the stars, from the privacy of light peep into the darkness with the temerity of night.

Ronald Duncan (1914-1982)