full moon and little frieda
a cool small evening shrunk to a dog bark and the clank 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 warmwreaths 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.
- ted hughes