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THOMAS HARDY

Forty years later the pain of love Suddenly pressed upon him; Breaking the long silence, then the words He used for passion were harsh and dry as strings.

Wryly, not to be fooled, he chose A language unpretentious as hedgerow birds, Brown and grey words, pitiful and thin As pressed leaves, flattened by an empty sky.

Dead from an early wound he'd stood For years like a hollow tree, Drinking the blackness of the heavens and growing Certain of the coldness of the stars.

Then one day, like a long forgotten song Suddenly lifted from the street, He heard again the tune of his own heart The painful music woke in him and sang.

Elizabeth Gunn

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