by Ted Hughes
A cool small evening shrunk to a dog barkand the dank of a bucket --
And you listening.
A spider's web, tense for the dew's touch.
A pail lifted, still and brimming -- mirror
To tempt a first star to a tremor.
Cows are going home in the lane there,
looping the hedges with their warm
wreaths of breath --
A dark river of blood, many boulders,
Balancing unspilled milk.
"Moon!" you cry suddenly, "Moon! Moon!"
The moon has stepped back like an artist
gazing amazed at a work
That points at him amazed
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