The Hunter’s Moon

When all the sky is dark
And there is just a cloud
Of a height, illuminated
By the far away sun,
They gather what is the object
Of the world, those who try
To touch it.
The cherished
Are impressions of fullest night,
When the gleam in our eyes
Has not adjusted to the earth,
As swift and nameless bird
To hold our sight, makes day
Stand firm, while the spiritual
Thought we sink down beside
Moves on at its own abiding.

Always kind in measure
Behind the ferns, or up
The hillside stalking, has grief made
The animal-spirit
Known, but cannot call it by name,
Long since, in the evening’s
Low horizon, the dark
Outlines of figures lie in wait.

So bring the warm south wind
To placid waters, and the streak
Of summer’s falling star
Near the inner calmness
Of those who laugh on sunny days,
Because all of us must
Turn and face something, and even
Blindness, in a solemn
And imperturbable
Heart, yields consent in listening
To the earth; and the charm
Of joys reminiscent, which time

And slumber gave us not,
Or constant sound and hope
Of things never-ending, to lead
Us through fields of vision
With the jovial signs of chase.

Douglas Thornton is a poet and English teacher living in France. He has published a book of poetry (Woodland Poems) and a collection of prose (Seasons Of Mind) while currently maintaining a website: www.fromapoet.com.