Full Moon and Little Frieda

I In the black wilderness, The mare grazes: disturbed hands gather A black moon motor, Die flames, as hot as a heart—

II Little Frieda Stands smutting past, half deafened: Waiting—“the kiss on the surface.” Creep thing beneath Searching the circling ground—

III While somewhere above, Gertrude saw clear skies form— Little Frieda, a criticism gathering Keels clear of evaporation and flames, Mother kissed the moon, then fell. Riding on airs. The fish are golden, Ready to go mad.

IV Every breath cries undoing rhythms, Fern shadows lost in inaudible worlds, So still floating, treading on fragility, on bad thoughts. That last goodbye’s grovelling tone.

• Ted Hughes