grandmother poem

it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
i loved a woman
the swan existing
afraid no more, i say
a sky that has never known sun, moon or stars
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
she heard the children playing in the sun
she burst fierce wine
stir
eighty years have passed, and more
the lightning flashed, and lifted
the meadow was creeping
rising moon has hid the stars