When swifts no longer sickle the twilight
and gulls beat inland, when clouds pass like
drift ice and a reaper’s moon is rising
like a blooded eye, leaves spiral almost
like tears. In the unlit house, a voice murmurs.
At flood tide, winds off the waters abuse
the cherry tree and batter the fences.
Just out of hearing, the rolling fathoms calm
to torn branches, occasional ice and
the slow intimation of landfall.