Bright sari in a darkened street
the lilting grey of Yorkshire sky;
rust requiems for demolished mills
repeating grooves of curlews cry.
And did Jane once sit on this stile
and watch the moon look down on Hay,
and see the dog and hear the horse
send icy clatters through the grey?
Then later only you to wait
( dogs rush to greet the friends not there )
the bloodstains of the sunset sink
the red Decembers of despair.
And worlds still pirouette their stars,
while on that stage fresh actors meet,
dim picture in a golden frame
bright sari in a darkened street.
