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.
