Like trailing silks, the light 
 Hangs in the olive trees 
 As the pale wine of day 
 Drains to its very lees. 
 Huge presences of gray 
 Rise up, and then it’s night. 

 Distantly lights go on. 
 Scattered like fallen sparks 
 Bedded in peat, they seem 
 Set in the plushest darks 
 Until a timid gleam 
 Of matins turns them wan, 

 Like the elderly and frail 
 Who’ve lasted through the night, 
 Cold brows and silent lips, 
 For whom the rising light 
 Entails their own eclipse, 
 Brightening as they fail.