Dusk

Soft evening closes the day  
like a loving father,  
peeping in retreat  
from his sleeping child,  
closes the landing door and  
slippered  treads the stairs.  
The day has earned its rest  
and sinks its golden eye  
beneath the blanket trees  
and curtain clouds.  
Tired workers come home  
to rest and then,  
with appetites replete  
recreated, slip into the dusk,  
or sit before the hearth  
and re-count in gentle tones  
the day’s news . . . . .  
histories to go unprinted.  
Sluggish hearts, dutifully kept alive  
now beat to other rhythms,  
feet, once heavy dance and skip,  
lips and day-parched-tongues  
take up a song.  
The long day closes and  
the gentle lyric of evening  
rises, as did the lark,  
above dewy grass and nodding trees.