poetry book

in the cloud-gray mornings
beside a stricken field
beneath my window in a city street
tell me not
all down the years
a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
when night drifts along the streets of the city
evidenced in the glimmer in your eyes
sleep sweetly in your humble graves
a thin gray shadow on the edge of thought
shines the last age, the next with hope is seen
she must go back, she said