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    
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.