This day now giving up its helpful sun
a brass band crossing mountains on parade.
A song of seconds only and to one
a cold reminder on the heavy blade
my crescent moon to swing and shine the splinters.
A muffled toll the passage through the wood
to wood beneath: a face of twenty winters.
And so I read the hours since we stood
near here as four and with our family things.
The rushing swifts make whispers in the thin
above they chase the clip of insect wings
and with an armful now I gather in.
In this my empire of one man I pay
allegiance at the failing of the day.