The night-mist hovers on the hills.
The slow creek winds between the slopes,
Friend of the stones and soil and moss
With its persitstent, glad-idling little notes.
The high moon trails its stuff on the sky.
In dim-blue backgrounds stars of silver follow,
Redoubled in hoof-shaped pools by waterside.
Cattle stand motionless, calm
A lone tall tree looks down
Where a gash on a hillside looms
Scarfed in mystical vapor.
The grass stiffen and shine.
With hoar-frost: on the weeds white ashes
Glisten. We loiter and wait. Lower veers
The handle of the Dipper. An owl hoots.
A breeze stirs. The creeks babbles on. We muse
Amid the geat eternal heartbeats of
The Near-at-hand, the Infinite
Love, Flamingo7774