The plough rests
like a hook on a glass
ceiling, as men sit,
boozily talking,
about beauty, souls
and space.

Tawny owls, ke-wick,
hooting from maple
to sleeping copper beech.
Satellites race the orbit
of the earth’s night.

‘Souls are queuing up,’
he says, and I try
not to laugh.

The moon is up,
and the stars are
my glinting headdress.

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