Far Spelt

as the water of her hand,

a hold of old moss inure

cliff and canyon, dry lands,

whence, morning-moored,

as a mist or all dew,

as footsure assurance

her vision o’erbent, secure

the shuffle of worn shoe;

yet a cricket in grassland,

a twilight haystack in haze,

a stick struck to a star,

warms a bowl in his hands