Give me a landscape by moonlight —
nay! Give me a thousand, this very day,
in a thunder of pigment, I’d burst in its way,
for I am weary of treading the city,
its grit and spittle and solid beauty,
gorse vehicles grumbling their busy ditties,
give me the light-footed uncertainty
of moonbeams reflected, and young galaxies
with their choreographed spontaneity,
give me treetops with softness of moss,
flax-filled ledges with fullness of floss,
a drowsy stream only eel-children cross.
My London’s uncannily gravel today;
I float where I must, scuff my soles if I may;
the moonbeams are false in the floodlights, they say,
but the streams by my home wait alone in the rays.
