Harry Guest
the don juan papers
lord john looks round
The dark descends. Earth shivers. In the hedge
the holly turns to iron.
The brown untidiness of autumn fixed
by cold. My breath alone
moves to evaporate in silence and
the fallen sun has left
the year behind. Increasing twilight, one
crow winging home, the red
on flecks of ice dying to grey. Move on,
steps echoing as in
a corridor to hell, the distance shows
no light, no curl of smoke,
the sparse fields all deserted, heading for
what refuge from the night.
Page(s) 124-125
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