POETRY.

YOUNG GIRL AT A WINDOW

Lift your hand to the window latch:

Sighing, turn and move away.

More than mortal swords are crossed

On thresholds at the end of day;

The fading air is stained with red

Since Time was killed and now lies dead.

Or Time was lost. But someone saw

Though nobody spoke and nobody will,

While in the clock against the wall

The guiltless minute hand is still:

The watchful room, the breathless light

Be hosts to you this final night.

Over the gently-turning hills

Travel a journey with your eyes

In forward footsteps, chance assault—

This way the map of living lies.

And this the journey you must go

Through grass and sheaves and, lastly, snow.

by Rosemary Dobson