Let Evening Come

Let the light of late afternoon
shine though the chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.

Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.

Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.

Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.

Let it come, as it will, and don’t
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.

Jane Kenyon

Bridge End, October

As some attract lightning, and others midges,

I draw behind me a delicate rain –

hooves drumming lightly the steep, dry lane –

a confabulation of wall-eyed gimmers.

Thought of my thought, herd of my heart,

we jink in a flock, in a shoal, we turn.

The school bus – eventual, awful – passes

The obstacle of a rolling tin can halts us.

 

Jen Hadfield