“And he saw how the reeds grew dark
At the coming of night-tide,”
— W.B. Yeats.
From the cottage window
he watches the winds blow,
scurrying and hurrying
for the day to be through
to turn evening’s dusky violet hue
into the starry indigo of night.
How she had loved that sight,
the clouds dancing in the air
the wispy bits of angel hair
white against the darkening sky.
And still he cried
remembering how she’d died
drifting away at the coming of night-tide.
He’d been there, sitting at her side.
Now weary, burdened with a heavy heart,
wondering what to do or what to start
Then softly he hears her gentle sigh,
and though it waits for no reply,
as the moon hums and the reeds grow dark
he knows she’s there somehow, a spark
in every fox’s bark and singing lark
her spirit roams by house and glen
somewhere, sometime, he’ll see her again.