Cold ashen light in the valley,
Rose-pink above it and grey,
Pale with the advent of twilight,
Sad with the death of the day.
Dimly the woods in the valley
Dream at the foot of the hill,
Stars are like jewels above them,
Jewels a god’s hand can spill.
Cottages send from the valley
Spirals of smoke coiling high;
Bright glow the lamps in the windows
As light is withdrawn from the sky.
Late birds wheel and fall in the twilight,
Some nestle for sleep in the trees;
The curlews, strange ghosts of the wasteland,
Are plaintively riding the breeze.
Stillness and peace now surround me
Wistful yet wond’rously sweet;
For the day that is dying gives promise
Of the morrow I’m longing to meet.
Weekly Times 24.11.61