Borrowdale by moonlight
Stand in the moist grass at dusk
sniffing the cool air, and listen.
Beyond Stonethwaite an owl hoots
and on the fell a single sheep is bleating.
Watch for a long time as the pale moon
in her last quarter slowly climbs.
She is a lonely companion
to three grey-green mountains,
their craggy outlines and crannies
softened by shadow, soothed
by the movement of a brush.
The sky is pearly pink; mist rises
from the silver water. No clock ticks.
This is the evening hush.