Something Vesperal
Spectres, vast, remote,
Uneasily wagging their heads
In shrouds of crushed amethyst:
Tomorrow I will confirm
That they are hill crests.
And slopes parade the green oak, olive,
Serried cherry.
An iridescence, thick
Or light, signifies the human:
Should the moment return
At sundown’s onset
I will ask what is this colour,
Again a few score of breaths,
And scaling the underside
Of pine branches
An aqueous rose, diffused.
Neither quality, nor adjunct.
How long so old.
