The last moment of sunshine
dribbles from the watering-can.
The moon, hunchback on a cloud,
gathers its borrowed light,
as the blackbird’s song is lost in
a net of stars.
The apple-tree, charcoal drawn
against an ocean sky,
disturbs the quiet of a warm wind.
Dusk unwinds the spider’s web,
a window light dips and rises
on a shadow wave of flowers.
Terracotta pots stacked in a black
lit corner, the climbing rose fades
to a child’s scribble on a dark wall.
Night rolls its carpet of unseeable
ground, removing boundaries
until confines are infinite,
yet the sky’s distance shrinks
to an arm’s length and a bat circles
the universe with tissue paper wings.
Rowland Hughes ©