Dimming

Four bare feet in the wet grass; he and she,

Having abandoned their shoes some time ago,

Print a wide arc, then slope down towards

A still canal, laced with rust that blooms

From old fashioned, swan-necked cycles.

The pinked sky of dinner has given way.

Under the transparent blister of a moon,

A thumbtack lighting the midges and her

Blackened soles, he lies back in damp grass

And wonders when on earth all this will end.