31

Evening draws the colour
From the earth:
The yellowing grass pales
Like bone, apples
Become opals, moonfruit,
Branches wither
In their own shade,
Leaning down into
The earth and the hour
Hollows and blanches
And rounds out to a pit
And is plucked—

But the creeping roses
Are rusty at
Their station on the wall
And vivid, a cluster
Of young red stars that sting
The dull redbrick.
They seem to speed toward us
From a far night.