Night descends. It sets up its little
tents across the valley. From one and another
Location someone lights a lamp within a tent
And a soft and comforting light glows through
the cloth structure.
Individual and quiet music escapes from
A harmonica or concertina and drifts like
Woodsmoke above the valley, beneath
The vernal moon. There is no kinder quiet.
Slowly the veils come down to swaddle
The land. Peace comes slowly too but it
does come, in flocks of birds landing in
trees as dark as their wings appear.
The rivers remembers and slaps the sides
Of its banks as it moves past, a burden
Packed with dreams part of its surface and its
Depth. We can watch from here, listen
To the quiet, pretend things will always
Be this way, the breeze swearing this is true.