A life unfinished, glowering in the distance,
A diffidence, a shyness from the day;
The slow conceit that happiness is wanting,
A careful plan turned into throwaway.
The birds know things, I think, that I’m still learning,
Like how we must move on, sometimes, to live —
I see them round the palace in the morning.
We’re made to take; we have to learn to give.
There’s moisture on the windows of my vision,
As though the night had cried itself to sleep;
I hear the distant calls of faint derision,
Resentment for the company I keep.
It’s up the hill: my fate, my destination,
To Movingstock, to live among the crows,
And breathe a song of maybe-new tomorrows,
And feel each passing season as