The Earth

Every night, beneath my window, something stirs. A rustle breaks through the dense shadow, Black water spills from the hallowing stones; And the air spills close against my face, Almost unheard, as it gropes for stars, weeping. I listen to the earth—she sounds Too much—to our years—too meek, But in her arms, on the benches, The fallen leaves rest, quiet in sleep, unnoticed.

• Sidney Keyes