In the evening light the walls of the priory
Cast shadows like old monk's faces engraved in their walls.
The evening swallows flit about like fireflies
Silently breaking the speed of sound.
Then, gradually, as the gauze sheet of dusk drapes over the land
They change subtlely into horse-shoe bats
Which are flashes of paint-brush, thin black lines,
Spat out and then as quickly erased
By the invisible artist.
Soon the moon will haul herself wearily
Up into that part of the sky
Where she can best see the pantomimes of the night,
And - carefully hanging one star from the piercing of her silver ear,
Gazes down in silent solitude whilst patiently awaiting her eternal fate.
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