Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
       The night above the dingle starry,
               Time let me hail and climb
       Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
               Trail with daisies and barley
       Down the rivers of the windfall light.

But let the poet on his balcony speak
And the sleepers in their sleep shall move,
Waken, and watch the moonlight on their floors.

"A Woman Combing" by me

You see her in tangerine light
making shadows on the stone,
facing away from the fire,
head down as if in thought.
The unsupported strap of her bown
genuflects across one clavicle
while the tortoise-shell comb moves
like a loom, pulling jacquard
weavings back and forth through
stories or fables that form
beneath her moving touch.

There are men in the distance
hunting boar in sparse woods
but here is a scene of women.
They have greeted each other
with a kiss, and now a swallow