Gold and silk of exiled skies continue.
Voices become a wind of fountain grass and poppies,
Where dusk’s yellow score fills the larch with marcato of crows.
Out of this ending light,
Rosettes of cut-clouds float like coming blossoms of snow
over Ivory lines of ocean.
The gates of the village close in a passage of bells,
As the ancient chaconne of the cricket becomes still.
Completes a silence of ending worlds.
Stars rustle in faint Misereres over your grave all night –
Like remaining heat of stones after the summer has gone.