The Coming of the Kings

The sun wheeled low, Neat, on the autumn knoll, First the blackbird flew, perched high, Watching his song claim the breezy air And the gap darkened steeply, A basin now empty of weight, The hawk And the ground-prey forgotten, Silence in this battle— returning heat, A wind scrapped over stones, I feel the gathering kings— They come with fire in their eyes, with the night sky. Mark my lowly throne, An altar made of damp moss, Under the brambles I will name them, Amid the twilight’s brim with fangs, Cutting through the air.

What is left but an echo?

• Ted Hughes