IV
They say there's a hant in the garden
who gesticulates in the moon at the end of the path,
or peeps at you timidly over the footboard
when you lie asleep in the summer house.
And after dusk falls
in the stillness that trembles
with laughter mockingly drifted
on faintness of cinnamon pinks through the shaking vines,
laughter of lovers that stroll and whisper in the night,
you hear him scratch with a withered hand on the screen
that blocks the door towards the house,
and you know he crouches alone on the other side,
lonely and frightened of the dark,
peeping at you through the holes in the rotted fabric.
But if you rise he takes fright in a wink.
You have to lean awhile from the wall,
looking down at the huddled, moon-misted roofs,
pressing on the harsh stone coping moist with dew,
finger tips knife-edged with desire,
before out of the corner of your eye
you catch a glimpse of his face like an oval moon splotch
peeping and peering
among the vine shadows of the arbour,
see him beckon you with an arm
thin as a grape tendril.
What can possess him to roam like a starved dog?
Could he find nothing in any of the seven planets
or on the farther side of the moon
to make him forget the misty midnights of earth,
or the shimmer of roofs under autumnal stars,
or pungence of cinnamon pinks, or laughter
of young lips wistfully meeting in the darkness.
