At a Window
I could have been out last night,
stargazing. It was clear enough,
the air still, frost forming constellations
on the dark path. But I curtained off
the sky and turned my back. In truth,
I was afraid of infinity.
This morning I am joining the dots
of the sheep that stud the hill
that leans against the town,
searching for a shape
like a plough or a bear.
Or a word perhaps, a message.
If you have any
thoughts on this poem, Jane
Pearn would be pleased to hear them.