Advent
After the wideawake galaxies
each dawn is glass.
Leavings of the night’s kill lie,
twig-bones, ice-feathers,
the ghost of starlight.Ewes breathe silver.
The rose won’t come –
stopped in her tracks.
Everything’s particular:
bramble’s freehand,a leaf caught out,
the lawn’s journal.
Deep down even the water-table
stiffens its linen,
and horizons pleat in a bucket.The stars burn out
to starved birds
watching my window,
and one leaf puts up a hand
against infinitive light.
Fra Collected poems skrevet av Gillian Clarke.