Away with the evening sun,
Red towards the field of dead,
Rest your sleepy head,
Be quiet now,
A cloud covers the moon.
Not too soon,
Two shadowy footsteps,
Crumble in the gravel,
Outside.
Mother's paling hand,
Clutching the sheets,
For a moment,
Before light out and,
A closing of the door,
Humble wooden barrier,
Solidarity in its rigidness,
Say the hinges,
Thirsty for their annual oil.
Rowan Blair Colver