Coming Round
As he breathes be hears
The little fog-birds singing out of sight,
As he holds his breath
Silence like a universal fright.
The alpine white of sheets
Slopes to the darkened entrance of his face,
In the corners movement
Of helpless lashes like snow hares changing place.
Coming towards his cave
In forms that grow above the world for miles
Christ and the sisters in white
Together and serious despite their blurred smiles.
Kingdom
The armoured ghost is like a photograph
Sliding straitly in the early sky,
His misty face and glow-worm stare
Appal his pious fainting son.
In his grave with axes, necklaces,
He does not dream of the majesty
Or of
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