The Sky

In a spent dusk the sky has turned,
A canvas wrinkled, twisted, tattered;
Its pale limbs stretch with nothing there
But pure ache wrapped up in blue —
Memories woven round softly beneath,
Weightless as sentences half-spoken.

And yet each tone tears the sunlight,
Goes up as far as the stars wander —
Catching each surface smooth on the water
Piano unwound and riding in chill,
The threaded ethics of an empty soul
Where colours come and sink;
And through this stillness I learn the need
To breathe and smile
For it holds my heart at ease.

• Louis MacNeice