I.
She lay out on the moor, under the August sun. Her hands were pressed like a bandage over her eyes. When she lifted them she caught the faint pink glow of their flesh. The light throbbed and nickered as she pressed it out, and let it in.
The sheep couched, panting, in the shade of the stone covers. She lay so still that the peewits had stopped their cry.
Something bothered her….
And in the east one pure, prophetic star—one pure prophetic star—Trembles between the darkness and the dawn.
What you wrote last year. No reason why you shouldn't write modern plays in blank verse if you wanted to. Only people didn't say those things. You couldn't do it that way.
Let the thing go. Tear it to bits and burn them in the kitchen fire.
If you lay still, perfectly still, and stopped thinking the other thing would come back.
In dreams He has made you wise,
With the wisdom of silence and prayer,
God, who has blinded your eyes,
With the dusk of your hair.
The Mother. The Mother. Mother and Son.