Evening Call Who waits for twilight and its bare will? Across corridors of swinging palms and shadows going home, Child of dusk; set foot on stones, let small clouds pass your dreams to sleep on after tones — Dripping the echo under the thick silken light, you arbour dust ’til the breath upholds, create music to hold, the crickets’ swell how slowly treads the dusk and all around is waiting soft — for nature and refrain.

• Mina Loy