Plain song of owl
moonlight between cruciform
shadows of hunting.
She sings again
in the sycamore,
her coming quieter
than the wash
behind the wave,
her absence darker
in the leaves’ tabernacle.
Stations of the dark.
A flame floats on oil
in her amber eye.
by Gillian Clarke
from New Poems
Slowly, silently, now the moon
Walks the night in her silver shoon;
This way, and that, she peers, and sees
Silver fruit upon silver trees;
One by one the casements catch
Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;
Couched in his kennel, like a log,
With paws of silver sleeps the dog;
From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep
Of doves in silver feathered sleep
A harvest mouse goes scampering by,
With silver claws, and silver eye;
And moveless fish in the water gleam,
By silver reeds in a silver stream.
by Walter de la Mare (1873 – 1956)