Days, lives, ages



Half-light settles round the building,
familiar, save in its swift approach,
as though I still were in the gilding
of the light of afternoon. A reproach
is in the slipping of a sense of time. Light
the light, or watch in dark and let the dark
draw on: hours stand as personal in flight
and all things follow where they mark
the wide approaches of the end of day.
Strange, then, what their passing worlds allay.




A Road Assumed