“Marginalia at the Edge of the Evening”
by Alice Oswald, from Woods etc. (faber and faber)
now the sound of the trees is worldwide
and I”m still here/not here
at the very lifting edge of evening.
and i should be up there. Bathing children.
because it’s late, the bike’s asleep on its feet,
the fields hang to the sun by slackened lines
and when the wind blows it shows
the evening’s underside
(when the sun sinks it takes
a moment smaller than a spider)
I saw the luminous underneath of a moth
I saw a blackbird
mouth to the glow of the hour in hieroglyphics…
who left the light on the clouds?
the man at the wheel signs his speed on the ringroad.
right here in my reach, time is as thick as stone
and as thin as a flying strand
it’s night and somebody’s
pushing his mower home
to the moon