Harbouring
What is a silvering raiment
to a long middle hour, cried the air
gentle and still
from his stars like soft stirrups.
Seats for the lanced night’s fury
and hair gold, like a dawntreader.
If the day is his palm, I surely am his knuckle
though interlaced, armoured, my hands can not stay him
but nor shall my eyes.
Only can a sentenced point
win over a long middle hour
and make dawn an always harboured crest
Steeled
Long middle hours pervade England
for Arthur’s sword still sees them
spiting its own intricate dulling
For the air too sought its hilt
and abbeys, coats, yesterdays
Steeled evermore.
Hours do not always colour
Evermore are they lined
white in their middle
long in their light
like a candle in sunshine
White
In night, the moon
brings the odour of things
and wrings its crested face
of dulling wrought grace
in the long middle hour