55

She stands at the window
In the dark of the landing
And the curtains drawn back
Looking down into the yard
And further, to the fields
Where smoke is curling up
Into the night close and
Dark and the shuddering
Light of the balefires out
In the fields plays at
The rim of the world
And she can see that they
Are burning hay down
And she sees the bonelike
Figures as they cross and
Recross hauling shivering
Loose clumps and fork them
Into the fire's mouth
And the bales fall apart
In the fire, fall apart

And it flares and flares.
She leaves the balefire light,
And as she crosses to her
Room her mother watches
From a dark rear chamber
Of the house and the silent
Child seems like a ghost
Borne through from a far life.