The moon wears a yellow veil

She is old; see how she drags herself across the sky

Snow sparkles under the street lamps

Below the harbour ice no-one can hear the trapped

tides

 

We are too tired you and i,

to deny the myth of our madness

grasping the silver arrows of easy sleep

Let no-one weep for our leaving; as for the moon

there will be seasons and seasons

 

Like those great boreal birds also strange to their kind

we will course the meridians south,

obeying something unspoken, unsanctioned

to settle, to tremble alone on a dark water