Over my head, where boundless ages are,
A low-pitched droning threads the darkened sky,
Moving across the firmament from pole to pole.
All else is quiet. Sleep her opiate jar
Has emptied, sprinkling lash and brow and eye,
Drawing a cloak of dreams around the soul.
No poppy juice for me. I watch the bay
Of light sweep over field and bush from high
Headland where lighthouse lantern winds its scroll,
And let my mind drift out, above, afar;
What tensed attentive pilot eyes the dark,
Lone in his cabin? Where will end his flight?
What souls traverse the darkness, seeking light?
The faint sound dies; I wonder “Does God Hark?”
Weekly Times 30.12.60